


Gather

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: Flower Town [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Found Families, Gay Nightclubs, Hollow Bastion | Radiant Garden, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other, Slice of Life, college town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 76,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: Spring has sprung, and Radiant Garden is in its element.Terra and Aqua have enough on their plates trying to earn their Masters' degrees in criminal justice; why not foster a teenage orphan while they're at it?Vanitas can't get away from his grandfather often enough, especially when he discovers that making a friend might be as easy as making enemies.As the manager of the town's most prolific nightclub, all Isa wants is for his evenings to end without a lawsuit, but a mysterious patron might complicate matters for him and his coworkers.As if it's not complicated enough that Isa's married to the stripper.





	1. Starting A New Journey May Not Be So Hard...

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a LOT of complaints and headcanons about the BBS cast somehow turned into...this.  
> Endless thanks to Oblitatron and her hours of brainstorming, without which this entire project would simply be The Fanfic That Never Was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story jumps around between character groups, I'll include a "cast list" for each chapter (though sometimes the titles will provide hints about who the chapters focus on).  
> The story opens with Aqua, Terra, and Ventus.

Aqua wasn’t sure how she earned her reputation as a die-hard optimist. She didn’t see a bright side to every situation. She just knew how to spin things to her advantage. It was less of an inclination for positivity than a stubborn refusal to admit defeat.

So when she awoke to a monochrome morning, heavy with clouds and fog, Aqua—ever the pragmatist—adjusted her schedule to suit the circumstances. She forewent her usual jog, showered in record time, barely letting the water warm up, and packed her bag for a long day of research and essay-writing. She trekked across town to the Radiant Garden University library beneath a sky that promised to complement the early spring chill with wind and rain.

At her age, Aqua should have remembered that not all promises are destined to be kept. She had just settled into her favorite chair, at her favorite computer, in her favorite nook, when she glanced out the window to see how far off the rain was. She performed an outright cartoonish double-take when she saw the sun, blue skies, and the bright green grass of the university commons. She checked her phone to confirm that it was, in fact, only a few minutes ago that everything had been sponged in gray. She even rose from her seat, craning her neck as if she hoped to find the same clouds she’d been begrudging since she got out of bed.

After convincing herself this was a normal—if sudden—weather pattern and not some cosmic prank, she sat down, tapping her fingertips on the mousepad in between each blink of the cursor. With the sun shining so clearly, dispersing the cloud cover, drying the rain before it had a chance to fall, it seemed absurd to dedicate an entire day to her studies. What else had she even done over the past week? The past month? Was she truly prepared to confine herself here, staring at a computer screen, jotting down notes and synthesizing them into paragraph upon paragraph of information that everyone who was meant to read them would already know?

The answer, of course, was a wholehearted no, and by the time Aqua admitted this to herself, she was already on her way out the door, phone in hand and thumb on the send button.

_Sun’s out, can’t study now. Where are you?_

She got her reply by the time she reached the foot of the library’s massive staircase.

 _excuses excuses. lol jk me either. downtown rn, gotta pick up groceries because SOMEONE let the peanut butter supply run out._ Aqua rolled her eyes. _why, got time to meet up?_

She tapped away at her phone, sidestepping a group of underclassmen who ran for the fields as if they’d never seen the sun before, or possibly never would again.

_Yeah, was thinking of getting some breakfast. Have you eaten?_

Terra responded even faster this time.

_I thought i was very clear about the peanut butter shortage, Aqua._

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that only an exceptionally close friend could annoy her so quickly via text.

_Ha, ha. Bailey’s in half an hour? My treat._

_you read my mind, see you there!_

Aqua pocketed her phone, slung her bag more firmly over her shoulder, and started toward the center of town. She’d taken this walk often enough to know she could get there in ten minutes, but she wanted to indulge in the scenic route today. It was too early for the gardens to be in bloom, and still too cold to go without a jacket, but she could roll up her sleeves and feel the sunshine on her face and arms, and that wasn’t nothing.

It felt like weeks since she and Terra had spent any substantial time together, although it couldn’t have been more than a day or two since she’d seen him. There were only so many ways to avoid crossing paths in their small, two-bedroom apartment. One would think they’d welcome some separation, having been best friends practically since birth and even following each other to the same university. But after spending all those formative years together, striking that rare balance of support and rivalry, it was a shock to the system when their schedules and workloads threw them out of sync.

She entered the fountain court, which was even more underwhelming than the flowerless gardens. Too cold for the splatter of waterfalls and too warm for the ice rink, the area had nothing to display but its own bizarre architecture. Without the running water or ambient lighting to soften the edges, the concrete blocks stacked on top of each other made the area look like some giant industrial playground. In summer and winter, this court was one of Radiant Garden’s most popular spots, but at this time of year, an out-of-town visitor wouldn’t even recognize what the area was for. The high walls didn’t allow much sunlight, and Aqua rolled her sleeves back down as she quickened her pace, trying to leave the damp chill and the unsettling echo of her own footsteps clinging to the stones where they belonged.

After a ten minute trot, she cleared most of the entertainment district and was closing in on the downtown market. Along the way, she passed the names of businesses that had intrigued her in her freshman year, but that she’d never been able to find—or perhaps justify—the time to explore. The Hall of Empty Melodies. Higanbana. The Dark Meridian. She’d made a few visits to Kisaragi’s Tattoo Parlor, but for the most part, Aqua found that these establishments held little more than mild curiosity for her. Certainly not enough to be worth the cover charges—though Yuffie had insisted that Aqua could probably score free admission to Seventh Heaven, much to the latter’s embarrassment. Terra claimed that was the only time he’d ever seen her blush.

Aqua shoved her hands in her pockets and continued on, leaving the unknown venues behind for a taste of familiarity, something she’d come to appreciate even more than adventure over the past few years. She smelled the coffee and baked goods of Bailey’s Cafe as she rounded the corner, and she wasn’t surprised to see Terra already inside, placing his order in spite of her offer to treat him. He was in the middle of a serious discussion with the barista, but when Aqua sidled up, pretending to be engrossed in the croissant selection, he broke into a grin and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, raising his hand at an awkward angle to ruffle her hair.

“Hey, blue jay,” he said as she returned the greeting with a friendly shove. “Long time no see.”

“I know,” she laughed. “Pretty sure the last time I saw you was either this morning or two weeks ago; I can’t keep track anymore. Hey, what are you having? I told you I’ve got it covered.”

“It’s no problem, just a sandwich,” Terra said, relenting when Aqua pulled out her wallet anyway. “We had too many miscommunications about the drink. Figured I’d be better off with a water anyway. And they don’t have pumpkin spice anything,” he added while she eyed the menu. “I asked.”

“We’ll see.”

Five minutes later, they settled down at one of the patio tables with optimum sunshine—Aqua with a cranberry scone and a pumpkin spice latte, Terra with a turkey wrap and an expression of annoyed disbelief. “After all these years,” he said as Aqua sipped her drink primly, “I’ll never understand why I’m a ‘difficult’ customer for calling them out on putting dairy in my drink, but you can order friggin’ pumpkin spice lattes in _April_.”

Aqua shot him a smile that was far too pleasant not to be a little bit smug, but it quickly gave way to confusion. “Wait, it’s April? I thought March didn’t end until Thursday.”

“No, Aqua,” Terra said, cloyingly patient as she reached for her phone. “March ended last weekend. Man, you’ve been spending too much time in the research lab.”

“Hey, genius, so have you,” she said. “March ended last _week_.”

“…wait.” Terra grabbed Aqua’s hand and turned it around so he could check her phone’s calendar for himself, then slumped back in his chair, utterly bewildered. Aqua put the phone in her bag, stuffing it all the way to the bottom as if to prevent it from giving them any more unwanted wake-up calls.

“Well, shit,” Terra said, “we just lost about a week of our lives.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve been spending so much time on campus, I should just have my mail forwarded to the library.”

“Yeah, you’ve been pulling crazy hours lately. How’s it going?”

Aqua swirled her drink while she considered her answer, giving Terra an opportunity to dig into his sandwich. “It’s good,” she began, slowly, “but you know how if you focus on something for too long, you start to see it everywhere?” Terra nodded hesitantly, afraid to hear what kinds of graphic images the forensics lab had placed in her head. To his surprise, she pointed at his drink and said, “I swear, I can see every single fingerprint on that glass.”

He exhaled fiercely through his nose and swallowed his food so he could laugh. “Wow. Wait till you start seeing prints when you’re trying to fall asleep—then you’re really fucked.”

“Oh, it’s awful. I never realized just how many shiny surfaces this town has. I guess it’s taught me a couple things, though.”

“Such as?”

“We, as a species, are more conspicuous than we think, and way too many of us aren’t washing our hands as often as we should.”

Terra laughed again, this time through a grimace. “Charming,” he said, nudging the glass away from his sandwich. “You know, I’m glad you found your calling and all, but I don’t know how you can handle analyzing that stuff day in and day out.”

“It’s a challenge,” Aqua admitted, “but trust me, the feeling’s mutual. And hey, while we’re on the subject, did you find a place for your work credits?”

“Yeah, actually. There’s a correctional facility in the next county, just east of Traverse Town. I’d mostly be helping with stuff like filing and general assistance, but they said they’d have a position available this summer.” Aqua wrinkled her nose. “I know. But hey, pretty soon we won’t have _any_ summers off. So.”

“Oh, well. When you put it that way.” Aqua picked at her scone, harvesting the cranberries and letting the rest crumble on the plate. “So, you’ll be spending the summer several towns away? You’re sure there isn’t anything closer?”

“Positive. It’s my own fault for procrastinating. Well, that, plus the challenge of pursuing a criminal justice degree in the town with the area’s lowest crime rate.”

“Lowest _recorded_ crime rate.”

“Heh, touché. Anyway, I know we’ve been away from home for a while, but it’s worth keeping in mind that this isn’t Departure. ‘Several towns away’ is, like, twenty minutes by train, not two hours. It won’t eat up as much time as you think.” When Aqua’s smile started to return, he added, “Besides, maybe you’ll actually get somewhere with Lockhart if I’m not around to cramp your style.” He ducked in time to protect his face from a small scone projectile, but he still had to rake the crumbs and a cranberry out of his hair while Aqua feigned offense.

“I don’t need you as my wingman, Terra,” she said stiffly. “I am an independent, self-reliant woman, and I am _perfectly_ capable of cramping my own style all by myself.” Terra raised his glass, and she tapped it with her now lukewarm latte. They sat in a contented silence for a few minutes until Terra offered an even better silver lining: “Hey, at least we’re not RAs anymore, right?”

Aqua buried her face in her hands, muttered something that sounded like “oh, good grief,” and then joined Terra in reminiscing about their worst incidents. While Aqua had only lasted one semester before losing patience with her fellow students (“I don’t _care_ if it you didn’t do it; _no one’s_ getting fridge privileges back until whoever ate my frozen yogurt fesses up!”), Terra had stuck it out for nearly two years and was fondly remembered as one of the most even-tempered and dependable RAs the dorm ever had. In retrospect, it was a good experience for both of them, affirming that Terra was wise to pursue a degree in correctional counseling and Aqua was just as wise to avoid it.

As they finished their lunch, Aqua regaled Terra with a story involving campus security, the third-floor men’s bathroom, and not one but _two_ fire extinguishers. It being one of her favorite debacles, she was engrossed in the storytelling, and it took her a few minutes to notice that Terra wasn’t sharing her enthusiasm. He wasn’t even paying attention, she realized, but rather looking at something over her shoulder. She let her hands drop from the universal pantomime for “wielding a fire extinguisher” and waited for Terra to notice she’d stopped talking.

To his credit, it only took hima few seconds to respond to her silence with a distracted, “Hm?” She fought back a smile.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just looking at this kid…I figured he was lost or something, but I think he might be on the verge of a meltdown. Next to the directory,” he added as Aqua turned around.

“Oh, dear,” she said, spotting him in an instant. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-three, and small even for that height. In one hand he clutched a brochure, and in the other a patch of his own hair. Terra was right about the impending meltdown, if the boy’s reddening face was anything to go by.

Aqua pushed her chair back and dusted stray bits of scone off her lap. “Well, it’s probably time to head out anyway,” she said, making her way across the square while Terra brought the dishes inside. She ducked to catch the boy’s gaze and offered a smile when he looked up. He lowered his hands, although the clump of hair still stuck out from the side of his head. His hairstyle was little more than a collection of cowlicks, spikes, and swirls at every odd angle. Not that Aqua had any place to judge; “blue jay” was as much a term of endearment as a playful jab at her own perpetual flyaways.

The boy straightened up as Aqua approached, and before she could speak, he stammered out, “Uh, hi. Um…c-can I help you with something?”

Aqua almost laughed, but instead, she gave him a friendly look and said, “That was going to be my line.” She pointed at his brochure, noticing it was opened to the town map. “Are you lost?”

Embarrassment overtook him, and he ran his thumb along the creases of the brochure as though he were itching to fold it back up. “Kinda, I guess. I mean, I know where I am. I’m just not totally sure where I’m supposed to be going. Or how to get there.” He smiled thinly in mockery of himself, and Aqua’s brow furrowed.

“Can I try to help?” she asked, waving Terra over as he emerged from Bailey’s. “My friend and I have lived in town for a few years now; we know all the ins and outs.”

“Oh…I dunno,” the boy replied, more hopeful than before but also more wary of letting it show now that he’d drawn the attention of two people. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“What, are you lost?” Terra asked. When the boy shrugged apologetically, he said, “Don’t worry about it, we were looking for an excuse to get some fresh air today. Beats working on research papers.”

The boy brightened considerably at this. “Are you guys students? At RGU?”

“We’re in the Masters program,” Terra said, not without a hint of pride. “After five years in this town, we should be able to get you anywhere you need to go.”

The boy chewed on his lip, still guilty for broadcasting his need for help in the first place, but at the pair’s encouraging smiles, he smoothed out the map again.

“Right. So, I need to get to Intro to Philosophy—”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Aqua said, bringing a chuckle out of the boy.

“Seriously. The thing is, it’s usually right at the center of campus, in one of the main buildings, but they’re doing construction or restoration work or something. I dunno. My professor sent an email saying to meet in ‘the Postern’ today, but I have _no_ idea where or even _what_ that is. And class starts in—” He checked his watch. “—eleven minutes. Great.”

“Well, we know where the Postern is,” Aqua said. “It’s tricky to find, but you’re not as far off as you probably think. The key,” she went on, gently reaching for the map and tracing the route to demonstrate, “is _not_ to enter campus through the main entrance.”

“Huh,” the boy said, absorbing her advice. “That’s…unintuitive.”

“Oh, it’s a pain in the ass,” Terra agreed. “But we can show you how to get there. It’s no problem,” he added before the boy had a chance to protest. “We were just about to head back anyway.”

After a brief, politeness-based standoff, the boy’s skinny shoulders drooped in relief. “Thank you,” he said, allowing them to guide him down the street. “And uh, my name’s Ventus, by the way.”

“Our pleasure. I’m Aqua, and this is Terra,” Aqua said, gesturing to Terra superfluously, which he followed up with an equally superfluous wave.

“I gotta say, Ventus, you couldn’t have picked a nicer day to get lost. The Postern’s kind of shabby, but it’s got an outdoor seating area, at least. You might get to have class outside; the philosophy professors love that sort of thing.”

“Who’s your professor, anyway?” Aqua asked. “We know most of them; we might be able to smooth things over if you’re late.”

“Professor Eraqus,” Ventus replied, and Aqua and Terra exchanged knowing smiles over his head.

“Well, good news, Ventus,” Terra said. “Not only are you having class outside, you’re definitely not going to be late. Eraqus is a great professor, but he kinda…runs on his own time. You’ll probably get there ten minutes before he does.”

“Of course, he tends to think that if he starts class ten minutes late, he gets to dismiss class ten minutes late, too,” Aqua said.

“I’ll keep that in mind. It’s gonna be a hassle with my schedule.”

“Is this your first year at RGU?” Terra asked.

“First semester.”

“Oh, wow. Well, freshman year’s the hardest.” At Aqua’s skeptical look, Terra amended his statement, “Or maybe not the _hardest_. I’d love to write research papers under twenty pages again. I guess freshman year’s just the most confusing. Either way, it’s all uphill from here, right?”

“Yeah,” Ventus said, though he didn’t sound convinced. Terra faltered, feeling like he’d hit a roadblock but not sure how. Luckily Aqua swooped in to keep the conversation moving, asking Ventus how he liked Radiant Garden outside of school, which led to Terra trying to help her remember the name of that one indie movie theater and where exactly the skate park was. Ventus even overcame his nervousness enough for some light teasing (“I thought you guys knew _all_ the ins and outs of this town”). When Terra finally pointed to an unassuming gray building up ahead and said they’d arrived at the Postern, Ventus gaped.

“We’re here?” he said, studying the building and then glancing over his shoulder as if that would make things clearer instead of disorienting him more. “I didn’t even realize we were back on campus already.”

“Well, I hope that makes you feel a little better about getting lost,” Terra said with a good-natured laugh. “It’s hard to do in town, but all too easy on campus.”

“Sometimes it feels like the town _is_ part of the campus, rather than the other way around,” Aqua mused, while Ventus turned his attention back to the building.

“Looks like he’s late after all,” he said, noting the small crowd of students by the door. “I can probably take it from here.”

“All right,” Aqua said. “If you need directions to get back, just ask Eraqus. He can get wrapped up in his own thoughts sometimes, and he forgets that not everyone is on his wavelength—”

“Or that not everyone knows what ‘the Postern’ is,” Terra muttered, earning a chuckle from Ventus.

“—but he loves to help,” Aqua went on. “As soon as you explain that you aren’t following him, he…well, he comes back to earth,” she said, for lack of a more tactful way to put it. “Just be very clear about what you don’t know, and he’s one of the best teachers you’ll meet.”

“Thanks for the tip. And, uh, thanks for helping me find the way here,” Ventus added. “I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” Aqua said with a warm smile.

“For sure,” Terra agreed. “And Ventus: deep breaths. You’re not the only one who gets lost around here. Honestly, Eraqus is probably at the main building right now because he forgot he sent the email in the first place. Things are almost never as bad as you’re expecting. Got it?”

“Got it. And… ‘Ven’ is fine.”

“Ven,” Aqua repeated with a nod. “Well, it was good to meet you, Ven. I’m sure we’ll see you around.”

“Hope so,” he said as he headed toward the building. “Take care; thanks again!”

Aqua and Terra waved as Ven trotted inside, and then they started walking back across the lawn to the center of campus. “Nice kid,” Terra said, stretching his arms over his head as they left the shade of the cliffs and reentered the sunlight. “Though—and correct me if I’m wrong—weren’t we _just_ talking about how glad we are not to be RAs anymore?”

“It’s a little different when help is offered instead of demanded,” Aqua said. “It was a nice distraction, at least. Felt good to do something productive.”

“True,” Terra said as he rolled his shoulders, and they continued their walk in silence until they arrived at the campus commons and couldn’t ignore their impending responsibilities anymore.

“Well…guess I’ll start putting together my work plan for the summer,” Terra said, gazing in the direction of nothing in particular.

“I should probably get back to the library,” Aqua said, looking directly at the building but seeming to stare though it.

“Yep.”

“Mhmm.”

They stood there—silent, motionless, unfocused—for a solid fifteen seconds before Terra said, with much more conviction, “You know, I can’t _really_ do anything until I go to the correctional facility tomorrow.”

“I bet the good chairs are already taken.”

“We _do_ need to pick up those groceries sometime today.”

“I can’t concentrate when the sun’s coming in at this angle.”

“Day trip?”

“You read my mind.”

They left campus without another word. After a quick stop at their apartment to drop off anything that reminded them of school, and after checking the forecast to ensure that the nice weather this morning wasn’t just a fluke, they took a short but relaxing walk to the station and boarded the next train to Twilight Town.


	2. Fledgling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Vanitas, plus a few cameos.

Professor Xehanort—through either charisma, professional distinction, or sheer seniority—held the unique honor of residing full-time on Radiant Garden University’s main campus. While his home was modestly sized, it boasted ornate features in the city’s signature style. A broad staircase inlaid with mosaics cut from the crystal mines. Pillars flanking the wooden double doors, topped with vines and marble flowers as detailed as any of the living specimens in the public gardens. And enclosing it all: the front gates, arched and gleaming in the unseasonably warm sunshine. Marked in the center with the old professor’s monogram, a single ‘X,’ it had become something of a landmark among the school’s population. At least once a month it was painstakingly hand-polished to pearly perfection, and at least once a month Vanitas took unspeakable delight in leaving fingerprint smudges and black sneaker scuffs on its surface. The teen had yet to find a lock he couldn’t pick, but some days, it was just more satisfying to jump the fence.

He swung one leg over the top of the gate, then the other, clinging like a bat. A slight bounce as he let go to brace for the landing, and then a dry _crunch_ of gravel and a blunt shock from his soles to his shins. Without waiting for the pain to recede, he plugged in his earbuds, put on some music, and jogged down the lane until his grandfather’s home was out of sight.

He almost made it through a full song before the first call came in, muscling out the music with a default ringtone. Vanitas dismissed it without taking the phone out of his pocket. The second and third calls met the same fate. He considered answering the fourth, if only to remind Xehanort that a thousand-year-old professor should have better things to do than hound his grandson about an early admission application, especially one that he’d already submitted. But nothing was better than simply freezing the old man out. On the fifth try, Vanitas had to fight back a laugh. Whatever decade Xehanort thought he was living in was clearly one in which texting and voicemail hadn’t been invented yet. No matter how many attempts he made to reach Vanitas, they would all remain hidden by a single, cryptic “missed call” icon.

When Vanitas passed an archraven on the side of the road, he scuffed his foot, kicking up a spray of gravel. The bird took off with a raucous caw, and Vanitas smiled as he watched it flee, until a second raven burst from a nearby hedge in pursuit of its companion. Vanitas cursed under his breath and ripped his earbuds out as the bird crossed his path, leaving flower petals and a feather or two in its wake. He took a step back and quickly looked around, and when he was sure no one had witnessed his overreaction, he let out a breath and forced his shoulders back down. He watched the birds until they disappeared, camouflaged by storm clouds, and then he continued on, stuffing his earbuds into his pocket with his phone.

The sky was striking today. The clouds were just dark enough to make an empty threat of rain, and the sun was just bright enough to emphasize the darkness of the clouds. Vanitas almost wished he’d brought his camera, though it was never worth the risk when he climbed the gate. It was a minor miracle the thing had survived all those years in the desert, let alone the trip down to Radiant Garden. At first, Vanitas had wondered why he bothered to bring it with him. Back home he took dynamic photos of the dunes, the mesas, the dizzying heights of the cliffs. Every shot contained perfect opposites of the color wheel. Bold oranges and blues at midday, warm yellows and purples at sunrise and sunset, and even greens and reds in the rare flowering plants. The wildlife was more interesting too: bizarre beetles and reptiles and rodents, animals that were as elusive as they were evolutionarily genius, able to find hiding places in the vast expanse of sand.

Here in town, he saw…birds. Occasionally a stray dog or two that bolted before he could remove his lens cap. But mostly birds, as fearless as the dogs were skittish. Vanitas had never had to guard his lunch from a stray, but he’d seen ravens maintain eye contact while taking food directly off tourists’ plates. At least desert birds had the courtesy to wait until their food was dead and abandoned before they started digging in.

But as grudgingly as Vanitas admitted it, if only to himself, Radiant Garden had its appeal. Granted, it took a month of rolling his eyes at the quaint cobblestones and flower motifs to realize there was something interesting beneath the city’s surface. Like the venomous creatures waiting under a mere inch of sand, there were little secrets scattered all around town. A defunct reactor oddly close to the public gardens. Unmarked hiking trails that led to unmarked cliffs, well within the town’s clearly marked borders. The ruins of a colossal, twisted fortress, left in a valley to rot. There were places where the polished exterior gave way to something rusted, mossy, chipped, and cracked. Vanitas had a hunch that if you took away both the radiance and the gardens, the town would still have plenty to offer. Some days he wished he could peel off the top layer like dated wallpaper and see what state the place was really in. Most days he contented himself with taking photos of overpasses and abandoned storefronts, even if he had to bring a can of paint to dress them down a little.

One advantage this place definitely had over the desert: graffiti was ten times more effective. Back home, everything was eventually bleached to oblivion by the sun or eroded by the dry wind. Here, things had a tendency to stick.

He crossed campus without running into too many other students, not that most of them would have recognized him, let alone stopped to chat. When he got into town, the clouds had vanished, turning a once-interesting sky into a bland, inoffensive blue. Vanitas jammed his hands deeper into the pouch of his hoodie, trying to blindly untangle the Gordian knot that his earbuds had become. In doing so, he remembered that he had simply stuffed them into his pocket back on campus, walking the entire way with his music still playing and draining his battery. Cursing under his breath for the second time that morning, he dug his phone out and went to the home screen.

Not one, but two notification icons greeted him: seven missed calls, and one voicemail. Vanitas stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, becoming that which he hated most as other pedestrians were forced to mill around him. His finger hovered indecisively over the play button. _It’s not going to be anything,_ he told himself, noting that the message was over two minutes long. _If he had an actual punishment in mind, it wouldn’t take him so long to get to the point. Ten seconds, max. He’s just an old man who hung up the phone six times before he remembered voicemail exists. It’s so non-threatening that I shouldn’t even waste my time listening to it_.

Vanitas rolled his eyes at himself for that line of reasoning. He turned down the volume, pressed play, and calmly raised the phone to his ear.

Three seconds of silence at the start—Xehanort’s method of ensuring that none of his brilliant monologue got cut off. Or maybe he wanted to prove that he spoke only because he chose to, not because he was waiting for permission from some mechanical little beep. Regardless, after those three seconds, he began: “Well, I see you not only refuse to discuss this face-to-face, you can’t even handle doing it over the phone. It baffles me that a boy with your advantages would rather scramble over the fence like an animal than engage in a conversation about his future. You aren’t finished, Vanitas. It’s not as simple as submitting a form and saying, ‘Well, my part is done. It’s in someone else’s hands now.’” ( _It’s_ literally _that simple,_ Vanitas thought.) “There’s always more you could be doing—more you _should_ be doing. You ought to be making a name for yourself here. I go out of my way to leave doors open for you at this institution, and you seem to amuse yourself by slamming them shut again. I can’t control how badly you want to waste your life, but I’ll be damned if I allow it to happen under my roof. The next time you put your feet on my gate or skip your private lessons, you can say good-bye to your darkroom. If I have to take the door off its hinges in order for you to learn that your actions have consequences, then so be it. Oh, I’m sure you’ll find new ways to sabotage yourself, of course, being such a _resourceful_ and _creative_ lad, but if—”

“Heads-up!”

Vanitas didn’t realize how tightly he was holding his phone—or how slick his palm had gotten—until he stumbled backward and the device shot out of his hand. He swore for the third and far from final time that day as a boy zoomed past on a skateboard. He started slowing down to apologize, but when he locked eyes with Vanitas, he simply pushed off the ground harder, grabbing a lamppost at the end of the sidewalk and swinging to safety around the corner.

Vanitas positively glowered, inasmuch as he did anything positively. Of _course_ it would be Ventus. Even with the age-old advantage of nepotism, Vanitas found himself outshone by the kid wherever he went. Ventus was younger than him, more advanced in math and science, more involved in extracurricular activities, and more well-liked by the staff—facts that Xehanort was all too eager to point out. In reality, the kid was a grade-A suck-up who forged as many fake friendships as he needed to get his way. His voice alone was enough to put Vanitas in a diabetic coma: all sugar and no substance.

But he had no energy to dwell on it. The human snickerdoodle had ollied his way to freedom, and Vanitas’s day was shot to hell. If it wasn’t birds scaring him or family members berating him, it was twerps flying in from out of nowhere, nearly knocking him off his feet. Muttering his frustration, Vanitas stooped down to retrieve his phone and assess the damage.

Purple was the first color he saw, then pink, and then a clashing green. Pastels, colored pencils, and squashed tubes of paint decorated the sidewalk, with Vanitas’s accidental help. A few supplies had serendipitously rolled between the cobblestones, but most had ended up under his sneakers. He cringed as he lifted his foot and realized it had been the only thing holding a few of the pencils together. Their split halves fell apart, the pastels were crushed to dust, and the paint was already drying on the sunny patches of the sidewalk. When Vanitas looked up to find out whose day was going as badly as his, he saw a girl around his age, clutching one canvas strap over her shoulder. The other had slipped, leaving her bag wide open at her side. A few lucky pencils still teetered on the lip of the bag, like cartoon characters about to be knocked over with a feather.

When Vanitas made eye contact with her, she said, “Oh—” and gestured stiffly at the carnage of her art supplies, as if she hadn’t noticed them until now. Vanitas knew he should say or do something other than shuffle off the mess, but the girl put him oddly on edge. She began collecting her supplies with a nervous hummingbird energy, flitting from paint tubes to pencils and scooping up tiny fragments of pastels. After a few seconds, Vanitas made his best attempt at an apology and an offer to help—“Hey, can I…?” he asked, waving vaguely at the ground—but the girl cut him off with a hurried, “No, no, I’ve got it,” and a tight, almost pained smile. To her credit, she was right. By the time Vanitas knelt down, she had already plucked most of the pieces off the ground and tossed them back into her bag. Her mannerisms were so rigid and strict that she seemed to be scolding the supplies for misbehaving.

Vanitas picked up the last few pencils that had rolled underfoot. They were surely unusable, split straight through the core, but he thought it would be presumptuous to throw them in the trash after having already broken them. He cupped his hands together and held them out, the wooden shards piled neatly in his palms. The girl simply held her bag open, and he dumped them inside, feeling like an even bigger piece of shit as he did so. She rose to her feet like a marionette and gave him a barely audible “thank you” before walking briskly down the street.

He watched her go until she turned the corner, then looked back down at the ground. All that remained was some pastel dust glued to a puddle of paint, its glossy finish looking more like an oil spill on the cobblestones.

Vanitas really wished he’d brought his camera.

His phone had survived the fall at least, and with minimal damage considering its lack of a case. Just a couple fractures on the bottom of the screen and, amusingly enough, a thin smear of purple paint on the back. A few swipes of his thumb confirmed that it had already dried. He touched the ID scanner to make sure it still worked, and once he was on the home screen again, he figured his mood had deflated enough for him to get through the rest of the voicemail. He did himself a favor by skipping the part he’d already listened to. What he surmised from the last twenty seconds or so was that Xehanort was _not_ happy (he never was) and he was going to make sure Vanitas knew it when he got home (he always did). He didn’t outright order Vanitas to return; he was picky about his demands, avoiding ones that could be easily disobeyed. But the implication was there, as usual.

Vanitas shut his phone off blankly. When he left his grandfather’s house that morning, there were dozens of places he could go, countless things he could do even without his photography equipment. Listening to the voicemail had narrowed his world down to two paths. He could either comply with Xehanort’s demands or defy them. He could return to campus now, or he could continue his walk at his own pace, only turning back when he chose to do so, and only to prove that it was his choice to make.

Vanitas stood in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at his phone’s dark, cracked screen.


	3. And You Will Find Me, Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Terra, Ven, and Aqua.

“Radiant Garden Station! Radiant Garden Station.”

Terra’s head bobbed up of its own accord, reminding him that he’d been dozing off intermittently for the past three stops. He glanced at his watch and estimated he was out for around ten—just enough time to experience all the grogginess of sleep with none of the rest. He rubbed his face and gave himself a light slap to wake up. It had been a long day at his internship, which he technically still hadn’t even begun. He’d spent most of his day listening to explanations of things he already knew or could easily surmise. It didn’t help that his attempts to liven the mood weren’t well-received, if they were received at all. Terra couldn’t figure out if his jokes were that bad or if his future coworkers truly had no sense of humor.

He shouldn’t have teased Aqua about being the teacher’s pet all those years as kids. She might have had little to no patience for delinquents, but her ability to sit through hours of bureaucratic drivel was unparalleled.

The train pulled into the station with a shudder and a sigh, and Terra gave the conductor a bleary nod as he stepped down to the platform. For a second, he wondered if he had somehow gotten off at the wrong stop after all. The sunset suffused everything with such a warm glow that Terra could swear he’d accidentally disembarked in Twilight Town. But he double-checked and saw the familiar station sign, the familiar streets, the familiar mountain view.

And a familiar spiky blond head of hair. Terra squinted through the sunlight, and sure enough, there he was, sitting on a bench with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed over a train schedule.

“Ven?” Terra called, waving to catch his attention as if they weren’t the only two people on the platform. The boy looked up, surprise melting into relief as soon as he saw who was greeting him.

“Hey, Terra. Wow. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah?” Terra said, approaching the bench. “Everything going all right? You look…startlingly similar to the last time I saw you.”

Ven let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, we gotta stop meeting like this, huh?”

“Did you miss your train?”

“No, actually. I got here on time for once—on the same day they’re doing track maintenance. Go figure, right?” Terra smiled sympathetically. “The next train isn’t for, like…two hours. I tried to find another route, but I’d have to transfer across two other trains, I think, and I know I’d just end up getting more lost. But it’s gonna be dark by the time I get back, and they…I just keep screwing things up.”

He bent his head again, and Terra used the opportunity to glance up the road. The promise of returning home was all that had gotten him through the latter half of his day. A hot shower and some video games were still at the forefront of his mind. With any luck, there would be leftovers of whatever Aqua had made (or more likely ordered) for dinner.

He looked back down at Ven, his fragile head clamped in both hands, ready to crack under the pressure like an egg.

With a sigh that he hoped sounded more tired than disgruntled, Terra took a seat on the bench. “Here,” he said, holding his hand out for the schedule. “Where you headed?”

“Twilight Town.”

“Huh. That’s kinda far. What are you going there for?”

Ven hesitated, then said, “I live there.”

“Really? You’re commuting in your freshman year? That’s a hassle.”

“Well…it’s just for one class.” Terra paused, not understanding, and Ven, fidgeting, added, “I’m not a freshman. I’m still in high school, just in an accelerated program. I come here twice a week, and the rest of the time I’m in Twilight Town.”

“Oh…wow,” Terra said, hit with a new wave of empathy for the kid and trying to think of a fitting response. “Well…I guess that makes sense. You did look pretty young for a freshman.”

He could tell by the way Ven deflated that that was not, in fact, a fitting response. _Just cool it with the jokes,_ Terra berated himself. _They’re not landing today; that’s been established._

“Sorry,” he said. “You’ve probably heard that more than enough for one semester. Seriously, though, I don’t know anyone else who’s in an accelerated program. Even Aqua never jumped ahead in school. That’s really impressive, Ven.”

The praise seemed to lift his spirits, but not by much, so Terra, conceding that there was nothing left to offer besides the obvious, said, “Well…if you’re cool with it, I could give you a lift back to Twilight Town.”

Ven’s eyes shone with cautious hope, but he hedged and said, “Oh, no…you don’t have to do that.”

And Terra’s initial thought was that the kid was right. He didn’t have to. Yet at the same time, he knew that he did, if only for entertaining the idea that he didn’t. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I can get you there in twenty minutes. I could use a nice drive, anyway.” When Ven still looked apprehensive, Terra added, “Seriously. It’s no problem.”

Finally, Ven relented, offering a weak, “Thank you.” On their way to the parking lot, he indulged in some ranting with renewed energy, his defeatist tone completely gone now that a solution to one of his many problems had been presented. He complained about how everyone said Intro to Philosophy was a breeze, which made it all the more frustrating that most of the material was going over his head. Terra risked another joke (“That’s bound to happen when you’re four feet tall”) and was rewarded with a lighthearted “shut up” and a laugh. Ven had just started getting into his problems with one of his classmates when he noticed Terra stopping beside a motorcycle, and he trailed off in awe.

“Holy crap. _This_ is your ride?”

“Yep,” Terra said fondly. “This is Earthshaker.”

Ven snorted at the name, which Terra felt he’d earned for taking the height joke with good grace. Plus, the kid was clearly enthralled with the bike, and Terra felt a small swell of pride. He had spent years customizing it, to the point that he could probably do any needed repairs with his eyes closed. It was good to know that all his hard work had resulted in a motorcycle cool enough to boggle a high schooler at first glance.

“I don’t have a car, so we’ll have to ride. You okay with that?”

“What do _you_ think?”

Terra laughed as he tossed Ven the spare helmet and settled in. “All right, hop on the back. And, uh…don’t tell Aqua.”

It was a smooth ride, warm and breezeless except for the wind they created with their own momentum. In spite of how tightly Ven held on, Terra was a little worried that a slight gust might blow him right off the face of the earth. He noticed when Ven wrapped his arms around him that the kid was able to close his hands around each wrist with room to spare. But they made it to Twilight Town Station without incident, and Earthshaker rolled up to the curb with an idling purr.

“So, where am I taking you? You live downtown?”

“You can let me off here,” Ven said, already climbing off the bike while Terra hurried to cut the engine. “I live nearby.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I gotta walk off all this adrenaline,” Ven added, unable to keep a grin off his face. “Thanks, though. Seriously. I’d still be stuck in Radiant Garden for another hour and a half if it weren’t for you.”

“No problem at all. And remember what I said before: deep breaths. You’re so far ahead for your age, you can afford a setback now and then.” Ven smiled, his mood already miles above where it had been back on the station bench. Terra hesitated, then asked, “Hey, you got a pen and paper?” Ven rummaged in his backpack and handed them over, and Terra scrawled his address, phone number, and email down while Ven looked on curiously.

“Here,” he said. “Just in case you get stranded again, or you need someone to kick your classmate’s ass, or anything. I know classes are ending soon, so it’s probably moot, but you never know. Aqua and I are usually around. In fact, text me later and I’ll hook you up with her contact info. She’s a little more reliable with her phone; I don’t think I’ve ever seen the battery on that thing go below 80%.”

Ven stood on the sidewalk, clutching the pen and paper, not knowing what to say. He drew his hand a little closer and managed a soft, “Thanks.” Terra reached out impulsively and ruffled his hair, getting the kid laughing again as he swatted his hand away. Ven stuffed the paper safely in his pocket, adjusted his backpack, gave Terra a brief wave and headed down the sloped road into town. Terra waited until he rounded the corner, then put the setting sun to his back and started for home, hoping he could make it there before it got dark.

* * *

Terra was on his way to the work program office when he saw Aqua striding down the path toward him. He swallowed his mouthful of coffee quickly so he could beat her to the punch. “Hey, Miss Smartass, I was just thinking about you. Remember when _I_ said our Restorative Justice final was in Cornerstone Hall, and _you_ said it was in Weiss Hall? Well, for your information, it turns out _neither_ of us knows what the hell we’re talking about, because—”

“Ven’s an orphan.”

An abrupt laugh escaped Terra’s mouth without his consent. Aqua simply stared, so he cleared his throat and said, “What?”

“He’s an orphan. He has no parents. He’s been living at a shelter in Twilight Town.” Terra blinked, his gaze unfocusing as he tried to line up what he was being told with what he actually knew. “That’s why he’s taking college courses,” Aqua went on. “He showed an aptitude in school and he’s being pressured to speed up his education. They just want him to be self-sufficient so they can shuffle him out of there as quickly as possible.”

“Hang on—”

“You drove him ‘home’ last week, right? Did you see where he went? Did you wait to make sure he got inside?”

“I didn’t even think anything was off that day,” he said slowly. “I was exhausted. It didn’t occur to me that he’d be hiding anything. I mean, I told you, he opened up about everything: his commute, his coursework, the train schedule, that Vanitas kid—”

“Oh, and don’t get me _started_ on that little freak,” Aqua said, while Terra accepted his fate of being repeatedly cut off mid-sentence. “You know who he is, don’t you? Professor Xehanort’s grandson. He’s not that much older than Ven, you know, and he lives right on campus. He’s only here because his grandfather got tenure. I’m not surprised he picks on Ven; he must be jealous of a kid who started with nothing and worked his way up on his own merits instead of nepotism.”

“What the fuck, Aqua? Do you have dirt on everyone in this town? How do you know all this?”

“Something wasn’t sitting right when you told me about Ven. I thought there might be more to the situation than we knew, so I did some research.” She shrugged. “I had some spare time and access to a _lot_ of databases in the lab. Not to mention the shelter itself, which is a whole other issue. They were _shockingly_ open about Ven’s personal information when I called.”

Terra shifted his jaw. “All right…I mean, technically you’re using your powers for good. Just in a very weird and questionable way.”

She waved her hand. “The focus here is Ven. He can’t live at the shelter. Twilight Town’s nice and all, I mean, it’s no Traverse Town, but…”

Terra had that feeling again, the sense that he not only knew exactly what was coming, but that on some level he had already conceded to it. “What are you saying?” he asked anyway.

“I think he should come stay with us,” Aqua replied, without hesitation.

“What, in our two-bedroom apartment? On the same block as Highwind’s and literally nothing else? He’s still mostly attending school in Twilight Town. Living here would actually make his commute _more_ of a hassle.”

“The semester’s almost over, and it’s public school. He could finish up his current year and transfer to Radiant Garden’s curriculum easily.”

“You’ve got an answer for everything, huh?”

“I spent the last hour having a mental debate with you about this. You agreed with me in the end, by the way,” she added with a glint in her eye. Terra smiled. He knew he wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t overlook the fact that they were only halfway through their degrees and swamped with schoolwork, not to mention his upcoming internship.

“I dunno, Aqua,” he said, half protesting and half asking her to convince him further. Her gaze softened.

“He’s only sixteen, Terra. You and I are almost twenty-three, and we’re still overwhelmed by the lives we’ve _chosen_ to have. Imagine how he must be feeling.”

“I know. Believe me, I want to help him, too. Every time I see him, he looks like he’s about to snap in half. And it does sound like the shelter’s trying to shuffle him out of there ASAP…”

“We have resources,” Aqua added, feeling the line of Terra’s resistance slackening. “We’ve got our own place, we’ve got some munny saved up…”

“We _would_ get excellent references from Merlin and Professor Eraqus.”

“Oh, you know we’re Merlin’s favorite tenants. If we explain the situation and tell him we need some flexibility with our lease, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to work his magic.”

Terra swirled his coffee, mulling it over. “We’ve both basically decided we’re doing this, right?”

“I’m already thinking about where we can get a pull-out couch and a third controller.”

Terra smiled and shook his head. “All right, let’s put a pin in this for now. I’ve got to go iron out some snags in my internship, and I’m sure you have some arterial sprays or something just as delightful to study. I’ll pick up dinner, and when you get home, we can do some research and see what we’ll need to make this happen. Sound good?”

Aqua beamed. “Sounds good. Thanks, Terra.” She patted his arm approvingly as she walked past. Terra paused, then turned around, sipping his coffee casually and watching her jog down the path. She made it about a hundred feet before skidding to a halt and turning around. Terra fought back a smirk as she retraced her steps until she was a few feet away, looking appropriately humbled as she said, “Hey, so…where’s our final again?”


	4. You Clever Little Sneak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Braig, Demyx, Lea, Isa, Dilan, Aeleus, and a Super Mysterious Teenage Patron. Who _ever_ could he be?

Higanbana, true to its name, was flourishing in downtown Radiant Garden. Only a few years old under current management, it had nonetheless secured its place as a staple of the town’s nightlife, a jewel in the crown that was the entertainment district. Its doors opened like petals in the warm spring evening, inviting the predominantly college-aged crowd inside. The throng of students went in and out all night, never quite hitting capacity, but filling the club just enough to keep its staff on their toes.

Braig, for one, was in his element. Sure, Aeleus and Dilan had the sheer strength to handle the crowd, and Lea was the main attraction most nights, and Isa was the keeper of the Almighty Clipboard. But behind the bar, Braig knew he was the one with his fingers on the club’s pulse. And what a pulse it had. Lea might have owned the stage, but Braig engaged in a dance of his own with the clientele, a constant back and forth of drinks and flirting. From his vantage point, he easily kept watch over both his customers and his coworkers, scoping out the entrance, the stage, and everything in between. Sometimes there was so much hectic fun to be had that he didn’t even know where to turn his eye.

Tonight, it was an easy choice. As Braig sent off a round of Thundaga shots, he caught sight of a tray held above the heads of the crowd, stacked with empty glasses and bottles, swaying haphazardly as its bearer tried to make his way from the chaos of the floor to the relatively controlled chaos of the bar. Braig couldn’t see the self-proclaimed rock star’s iconic mullet, but he recognized him by the borderline slapstick way he handled even the most basic tasks. _Someone should really help the kid_ , Braig thought as he leaned on the counter, waiting for an OSHA nightmare to unfold.

But, as usual, Demyx’s luck overrode his judgment. He finally broke through the crowd, gasping for breath as he pushed onward to the bar. He let his shoulders drop with a dramatic sigh, and Braig deftly stole the tray from him before its contents went sliding to the floor after all. “Man,” Demyx said, claiming a bar stool and rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a madhouse in here tonight. Next time you see me on the floor, toss me a lifeline or something. Look! I’m sweating _buckets_. Gross.”

Braig squinted. He supposed there was a slight glisten on Demyx’s forehead that could just as easily be sweat as it could be secondhand glitter from his journey through the crowd. He shrugged as he unloaded the tray and wiped it down. “Eh, lose a layer, then.”

“Psh, nice try.” Demyx leaned to one side so he could fish something out of his pocket. As he uncrumpled the piece of paper and tried to remember which way was up, Braig looked on in mock disapproval.

“Better not let Isa catch you with that.”

“Shit, you’re telling me. How am I supposed to memorize the menu when it keeps changing? I can’t even pronounce half these drinks.”

“You’d think the guy would cut his own friends some slack. Haven’t you known each other since middle school?”

“Grade school,” Demyx said, still hopelessly scrutinizing his own handwriting. “And I gotta do some odd jobs here and there if I want Up To Eleven to perform on a regular basis. This is our most reliable gig, as long as I don’t screw up too often.” When he saw Braig’s eyebrow arching over his eyepatch, Demyx floundered. “We’re friends,” he insisted. “That’s just how it is with Isa, y’know? All his relationships are, like…negotiation-based.”

“Lea gets the stage anytime he wants.”

“Yeah, well. Lea’s gotta live with him.”

Demyx regretted the joke as soon as he said it, both for its mean-spiritedness and for the way it made Braig’s face light up, a mischievous look that filled Demyx with excitement and impending doom. He liked Braig’s smile, but something about it was as unnerving as it was naturally appealing. It was a smile with a slant, the left side always lifting just a little higher than the right. “Ooh,” Braig said. “I’m telling him you said that.”

“Don’t!” Demyx said, giggling nervously. “Don’t. Seriously, don’t. Here,” he said, trying to distract Braig with the list of drink orders. “I should’ve already gotten these by now. And you don’t have to tell me, because I already know that _yes_ , I butchered the Latin.”

Braig plucked the paper out of Demyx’s hand and held it at arm’s length. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that…” he replied, bringing a naively hopeful look to Demyx’s face until he added, “You butchered the Italian.” He scanned the list while Demyx flipped him off, then folded it back up and slipped it into his pocket. “All right, one _Scherzo di Notte_ and _L’Oscurita dell’Ignoto_ , comin’ up.”

With practiced ease, Braig’s hands went searching under the bar without a single glance to guide them, producing the correct bottles and ingredients to mix two of the most expensive items on the menu. While he wouldn’t say he had a passion for bartending—if only because he wasn’t the kind of person who would describe himself as having a passion for _anything—_ he found that this job suited him. It was the perfect blend of routine and creativity, allowing him to do most of the work by memory and still not get bored. He’d just begun to blend the _Scherzo_ when he noticed Demyx sitting with unusual stillness in his periphery.

“All right, what’s with the guppy face?” he asked, hardly needing to look at Demyx to know that he was gaping.

“Goddamn, dude,” Demyx said. “That was hot.” Braig snorted.

“What, the Italian? You even know what it means?”

“Nope. Sounded good, though. Do you actually speak it?”

“ _Più o meno_ ,” Braig replied, waving his hand in a so-so gesture of false modesty and bringing a delighted grin to Demyx’s face for playing along. “Plus Spanish, some Portuguese, a dash of French. Picked up a little Japanese in this joint, but not enough to get by. Just enough to make Marley cringe when I try to use it.”

“Wow,” Demyx said, his voice soft with awe. Braig almost felt a stab of pity for the kid; he was so easy to impress sometimes. In a snap, he could go from trading sarcastic barbs with Braig to gazing at him as if he were the coolest thing to ever set foot in this club. And while Braig didn’t necessarily doubt that he _was_ , Demyx had no reason to think so other than the eyepatch and passable competency in a handful of languages.

“Yeah, well. It’s like anything else: gets easier the more you practice. Which you would know for yourself if you paid attention to the menu. Not that it makes a difference to me,” he added, quelling Demyx’s indignant look as soon as it arose. “I’m also fluent in whatever language your chicken scratch is.”

“Well, I don’t think I’d ever order one of these anyway. I’ll stick with a Wild Blue or a Lazy Afternoon or something.”

“Yeah, that seems more your speed. But I’d cut back on the lazy afternoons if I were you. Your one-a-day habit can’t be healthy.”

“Hey, screw you. I work, like, four jobs, if you count all the odds and ends I do around here.”

“I don’t,” Braig said. “But then again, I’ve had more jobs than I can count. And they weren’t cushy gigs like lifeguarding at the public pool, or teaching middle schoolers how to play Wonderwall.”

“Yeah?” Demyx said, his interest so piqued by this glimpse into Braig’s life that he didn’t stop to ask himself whether he had ever actually told the man that he offered guitar lessons. “So, what’s the craziest job you’ve ever had?”

“Ah, Dem, you know I don’t like to play favorites. Except when it comes to you.” Demyx opened his mouth to say something equally snarky, but Braig set down the tray before he could speak and said, “Order up.”

Demyx paused, surprised to see the drinks even though he’d been sitting in front of Braig the entire time he was preparing them. Nevertheless, he slid off the stool and lifted the tray with a tired sigh. “All right, back to the field. If I don’t make it out, tell Lea he can have my sitar.”

“Send up a flare if it gets too crazy. Dilan’s always game for a search and rescue.”

With a little salute, Demyx bravely headed back to the floor. He took two steps before he turned on his heel, and the drinks that Braig so expertly crafted sloshed dangerously close to the rims of their glasses. As Demyx scampered back to the bar, Braig cracked a grin. “Aww, missed you, too. Or did you just chicken out?”

“Forgot an order. I need a False Theory for table six.”

“Ah, the pipsqueak’s back again, huh?” Braig said, leaning over the bar to see if he could spot their oddest patron. Sure enough, there the kid was, in his usual spot, not doing much of anything as far as the Higanbana crew could tell. Like most nights, he was just sitting at his table—and Braig noted that he was now mentally referring to it as _his_ table—surveying the room with a strange mix of calm detachment and mild curiosity.

“He’s kinda creeping me out,” Demyx admitted. “He doesn’t _do_ anything, y’know? He just hangs out, looks around, and then after a while, he leaves. Not that I ever _see_ him leave. _Or_ arrive, come to think of it.”

“This ain’t _The Shining_ , kiddo. He comes here, he goes home. Nothin’ spooky about it.”

“Don’t call me ‘kiddo.’ It’s weird.”

“You got it, babe,” said Braig, and Demyx, who had expected another condescending nickname, found himself taken aback and a little flustered. Again, Braig presented a drink that Demyx wasn’t even aware he’d been making, and Demyx added it to the tray with a quick “thanks” and returned to the floor. Braig shamelessly watched him until he was absorbed by the crowd, then turned his eye back to table six. The boy was still looking out at the floor, but his silver hair was falling in his face, and in spite of his claim that this wasn’t a horror movie, Braig felt the prickling, unwelcome sensation of having been watched.

* * *

Seven-thirty was an odd time of night: too early for the adult shows, but not offering much to the younger crowd who came directly from school. Most of them were gone by now anyway, wanting to clear out on their own before they were “asked” to leave by Dilan or Aeleus. There wasn’t much for the Higanbana staff to do except meander from one station to another, exchanging mildly awkward nods as they crossed paths over and over again.

Braig wasn’t one to let his coworkers pass with a mere nod, awkward or otherwise. Anybody who strayed within ten feet of the bar was getting a conversation, whether they wanted one or not. And it was Lea, having nothing to do until the late shift, who was the prime candidate that evening. He must have been bored, too, because when Braig spotted him loitering by the stage and whistled, Lea obliged almost immediately, sauntering over to the bar.

“Slow day?” he asked, making himself as comfortable as he could on one of the stools and leaning back with his elbows on the counter. He liked sitting where he could keep an eye on the crowd, even if it meant turning his back on the bartender.

“Boring day,” Braig corrected. “But hey, now that you’re here, I gotta run something by you. I’ve been thinking a lot about your routine.”

“Thanks, that’s nauseating to hear.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that you don’t wear a belt. Just strikes me as a huge missed opportunity. I mean, that’s the best part, that’s the _hook_ , you know? Whipping off a belt sets the tone for the whole show.” Lea shrugged, and Braig mimicked the gesture sarcastically. “What’s that mean? Don’t you want to up the tension onstage?”

“Tension’s overrated. Why would you want to be tense while you’re watching a strip tease, anyway? The whole idea is to have fun. Loosey-goosey, that’s the way to go.”

“You’ve got no appreciation for your craft.”

“Sounds like you’ve got no appreciation for yours. How is it that a man with only one eye can tend bar _and_ keep such a close watch on the show?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

“…be that as it may, it sounds to me like you’ve been slacking. Tell you what. Let’s invite Isa into this conversation and let him know how much you’ve been checking me out instead of, I dunno, doing your job.”

“Good! Let’s! Been dyin’ to talk to him about the state of this place. I’ve got a lot of critiques and we’ve really dropped the ball on team meetings lately.”

“Oh, those still happen. We just stopped inviting you.”

Braig was spared the effort of thinking up a comeback by Isa’s almost suspiciously well-timed arrival. “Hey,” Braig said, picking up a glass and rag as though subconsciously trying to look busy, while Lea swiveled the stool to face Isa and smiled. “Speak of the devil—you should get in on this. We were just having a very interesting conversation about Red’s routine. I’ve got some killer ideas that would really kick his performance up a notch.”

“What are you doing out here?” Isa asked Lea, ignoring Braig to an impressive degree.

“Talkin’ to Braig. Allegedly, he’s got some killer ideas that would really kick my performance up a notch.”

“Is that so.”

“Mhmm. I mean, I’ve been headlining this place for three years, and we could literally live off my tips alone, but you know, our wise elder might have some worthwhile—”

“Belts,” said Braig, holding his hands up as if to bracket the word between them. Isa finally acknowledged him with an especially flat expression that he tended to save just for Braig, which only made the bartender feel all the more important.

“What.”

“Belts,” Braig repeated. “Well, _a_ belt. No need to go overboard. But I’m just sayin’, a strip tease without a belt is missing the most satisfying part. It’s like holding in a sneeze. What’s the point?”

“No,” Isa said simply. “A belt is a safety hazard. If Lea drops it on the stage, he could trip over it, or slip and fall. If he throws it into the audience, which we all know he will—” Lea shrugged good-naturedly. “—then we’ll need to purchase a replacement for every show. Additionally, if the crowd were ever to get out of control, a belt could easily be used as a weapon.”

“Jesus. You spend a lot of your precious mental energy on worst case scenarios. What are the odds of that even happening?”

“Slim to none, _because_ I spend my time thinking about worst case scenarios and taking the appropriate steps to prevent them.”

“Yeah, you heard the boss,” Lea said, slinging an arm over Isa’s shoulders. “Whatever he says goes. And, uh, for the record, have you _seen_ me? I resent the implication that I need a belt in the first place.”

While Braig rolled his eye, Isa gently but firmly lifted Lea’s arm off his shoulders. “Not in the workplace,” he said, in a tone that suggested they’d had this discussion many times before. “It sets a bad precedent.”

“What precedent?” Braig asked. “That you’re human?”

“It sets a precedent about physical contact with the performers. Another safety issue. Dilan’s already had to remove patrons who tried to get a little too familiar with Lea in the past. The last thing we need is for him or Aeleus to start walking us to our car every night. In fact,” he went on, turning to Lea, “you shouldn’t even be on the floor right now. Go back to the break room. Work on getting that shrimp ramen smell out of the microwave, and while you’re at it, see if you can talk Demyx out of ever using it again.”

Lea raised his eyebrows and gestured to himself in disbelief, sliding forward on the stool and slouching against the bar. “Clean the microwave? _Me_? C’mon, why do I always get stuck with the icky jobs?”

“Because,” Isa said, “you always complain about it.” He pointed toward the back of the club with his pen, and Lea made a petulant show of heaving himself to his feet with a sigh. Willing to follow orders, but not to the letter, he lifted a lock of Isa’s hair as he passed, trailing his fingers through it until they reached the end and letting it fall again. Isa didn’t look amused, but neither did he tilt his head away.

“Wow,” Braig said. “What a rebel.”

“You don’t hold the monopoly on disobeying authority here,” Isa said, running his hand down his hair to gather it neatly back in front of his shoulder. “Or on childish antics.”

“Believe me, I never thought I did. But hey, speaking of children, our favorite little weirdo is back.”

“Yes, his band is playing tonight.”

“Ha, ha. Fed you that one on a platter. I’m talkin’ about the skinny kid at table six.”

“I’m aware. That’s what I came here to discuss with you. Is he eighteen?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Have you carded him?”

“First of all, that’s Dilan’s job. Or Aeleus’s. Whoever’s manning the door tonight. If you want me to card every single guy who looks like a high schooler in here, you’d better pay me a bouncer’s salary on top of what I’m already making.” Isa looked like he had a retort ready, so Braig went on, deriving deep pleasure from knowing that Isa probably had a scathingly good comeback that he’d never get to deliver. “Second of all, I haven’t even had to card him. All the kid orders are False Theories, and never more than two. Never seen him arrive or leave with anyone, or hit the dance floor, come to think of it. Not sure what he even gets out of this place.”

“Statistically? Medical complications.”

“Yeah, speaking of which, we gotta revamp our bulletin board. Maybe next time remind Demyx to put the staples through the _packaging_ , not the condoms themselves.”

Isa drew on a seemingly endless reserve of willpower to keep from smacking his own face with his clipboard. Braig noticed. “Brain like a whiffle ball, that kid,” he said with a grin. “Fine by me, of course. I like ‘em ditzy.”

“I’ll send out a memo reminding everyone not to overestimate the critical thinking skills of our clientele. I don’t care how renowned RGU is or what percentage of their class these students graduated in. Nobody comes here to _think_.”

“Well, except Mr. False Theory. Couldn’t guess _what_ he’s thinking about, though. But I’ll tell you, I’ve caught him looking this way every now and then. I mean, I’m used to it. I’ve got kind of a following of college kids in this town.”

For a moment, a faint grimace crossed Isa’s face. But rather than taking the obvious route of insulting Braig, he conceded, “Well, I assumed they must be coming here for something other than the atmosphere.”

“Heh, what, is the three-way of pastels, traditional Japanese decor, and electro-pop not doing it for you?”

“It’s not quite my style.”

“Fair enough. At the risk of annoying you further, I’m with you on that one. Give me a place like Highwind’s over this pretentious hipster trap any day of the week.”

“What an excellent idea. Why don’t you go see if he’s hiring?”

“Can’t. I’m banned for life.”

Isa decided to let that one hang. “Regardless of what he’s ordering,” he went on, as always fighting an uphill battle to remain on track, “he can’t stay if he’s underage. Lea’s on at nine-thirty.”

“Well, hey, here’s a thought. Go ask him yourself. Or get Dilan to do his job for a change. I’ve got my hands full back here, and not in the fun way.”

Isa tensed his jaw but said nothing. He couldn’t exactly scold the bartender for making too many sexual innuendos in the town’s most prolific gay nightclub. It just never seemed like an argument he could win. Instead, he looked back toward table six, and he was surprised to find it unoccupied, with only an empty glass on the table and a small, neatly folded napkin beside it. The chair was even pushed in.

Braig leaned past Isa, following his gaze. “Huh. Looks like he shoved off on his own.” He gave Isa a light whack on the shoulder. “A self-solving problem. Your favorite kind.”

Isa didn’t tell Braig that self-solving problems were in fact his least favorite kind. He couldn’t trust solutions that he didn’t bear witness to; the effort they saved wasn’t worth the lack of closure. Plus, the kid’s timing was, like Isa’s, uncanny. It was almost as if he’d been listening to their conversation from across the room and decided to leave right before they threw him out.

“Good,” Isa said anyway. He checked his clipboard, then his watch, then the clipboard again. “All right. Good. If he comes back tonight, let me or Aeleus know as soon as you see him.”

“Not Dilan?”

“Dilan stays by the stage.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nothing’s more important than protecting the flaming wonder.”

“I think it’s well within the job description of a bodyguard to guard our staff. I told you, we’ve had incidents.”

“The curse of having a hot husband, huh?”

“Hm,” Isa said noncommittally, still scanning the floor. “I’m going to remind Aeleus and Dilan to be more diligent about checking IDs. You be more careful as well. And do a sweep before Lea’s routine starts, just to be safe.”

Braig gave him the finger guns.

“Don’t do that.”

* * *

A week passed. In addition to Isa’s daily responsibilities, the club dealt with an unscheduled health inspection, a booking disaster in which three bands (including Demyx’s) showed up on one night and none of them showed up the following night, and a fire alarm that had shut the place down for two hours. Isa had all but accosted the firefighters and demanded that they check the bathrooms and the break room first, convinced that the alarm was due to either college students smoking in the former or Demyx burning his food in the latter. Thankfully, most of their clientele had wandered off to other venues by that point, and only a few of them witnessed the spectacle of Demyx sidling behind Aeleus for protection while Lea gently steered Isa away by his shoulders to cool off.

After a thorough inspection, the firefighters concluded that the alarm wasn’t caused by smoke at all, but rather a beetle that had inadvertently lodged itself in the device. Braig was the only one who found the humor in this, though Demyx laughed nervously along with him, still halfway behind Aeleus in case this ended up being the ordeal that would finally snap Isa’s nerves in half. Later, when they were closing up for the night, Isa admitted that he owed Demyx an apology for jumping to conclusions. Demyx never actually got the apology itself, but he appreciated the recognition that one was owed.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Isa was just thankful to have made it through the week without the club being shut down, and he managed to push all the past nuisances and mishaps from his mind. Until that night, when he was putting together the final touches for the evening’s entertainment, and happened to cast an instinctive glance at table six.

And there he was in his usual spot, a False Theory sitting in front of him, barely touched. Isa openly stared, waiting for the boy to either return the stare with one of his own or at least have the decency to look caught. But he simply continued to gaze around the room as if it existed for his assessment, and Isa noticed that he did tend to focus his attention on the bar, as Braig had claimed.

Well, enough was enough. Isa jotted a few more numbers down in his ledger, his handwriting thin and almost surgically sterile, then snapped it shut and headed off to find Aeleus.

As Isa passed the stage, Dilan caught his eye and stood up straighter, picking up on some sense of urgency in his body language. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Isa shook his head and held up one hand, and Dilan remained at ease. The irony was not lost on Isa that the man who had once thrown him and Lea out of the club for trying to sneak in as high schoolers was now the man they trusted with their safety more than anyone else. It wasn’t that Aeleus was less capable or less inclined; given the height and weight advantage he had on Dilan, he was likely _more_ capable, and no one doubted his willingness to put himself at risk to protect the crew.

But only Dilan had had the opportunity to prove it, and the memory had always stuck with Isa. He and Lea had only been working at Higanbana for a few months by that point, and they were barely older than the average patron. All in all, it wasn’t hard for a pair of entitled, drunk students to step out of line. Thankfully, it didn’t go beyond some remarks that they surely thought were hilarious and some light touching, but Isa still remembered the knot it had put in his stomach, and how much bigger they looked than skinny Lea, and how they clearly had no natural inhibitions about what they were doing.

And how that meant they might have gone even further, had Dilan not arrived on the scene with surprising speed and stealth for someone his size. The perpetrators were lifted off the floor so fast their shoes squeaked on the tile. Lea had actually retreated a few steps, more thrown off at being rescued from the harassment than the harassment itself. As Dilan carried the former patrons to the side exit by the backs of their shirts, one of them had insisted that they were paying customers, and the other had backed up his buddy, saying, “We’re gonna tell _everyone_ about this!”

And Dilan, economical as ever with his words, had said, “Good,” opened the door with his foot, dropped them in the alley, and then shut the door again with as little emphasis as if he’d taken out a couple bags of trash. He had returned to Lea to ask if he was all right, and when Lea replied with a stilted, “Yeah—uh, thanks,” Dilan had simply nodded once and returned to his post.

Isa had checked on Lea himself and sent him backstage for the rest of the night, more to ease his own anxiety than out of any sense of real danger. He approached Dilan later and thanked him more profusely, insisting that Dilan didn’t need to go to quite those lengths to take care of unwanted patrons. Dilan’s response had cemented him as Isa’s unofficial employee of the month.

“Yes, we do. We have a zero tolerance policy on harassment. Anyone who initiates unwanted physical contact is banned on the spot, preferably in a way that makes an example of them.”

“Shouldn’t we scan their IDs, then?”

“I never forget anyone I throw out.”

Isa must have looked embarrassed, because Dilan added, “Not everyone I throw out is banned, for the record. You guys didn’t do anything wrong. You just needed to wait until you were old enough.” And, in a moment that had felt right at the time but would seem more and more uncharacteristic the longer they worked together, Dilan had placed a broad, callused hand on Isa’s stiff shoulder and said, “Aeleus and I have been here for years. We know what’s needed of us. You two are still finding your footing. We can handle things while you learn. You’re doing well.”

Isa had simply nodded. To this day, he still couldn’t think of a fitting response.

Now, he craned his neck to make eye contact with Aeleus over the crowd. He beckoned for the bouncer to come with him, and together they convened back at Dilan’s post.

“Have either of you checked that young man’s ID?” Isa asked, nodding in the direction of table six rather than pointing, because Marluxia was a stickler for traditional social customs, and pointing was considered rude.

And because Isa still wasn’t convinced the boy couldn’t somehow overhear their conversations, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to themselves.

“I don’t recall,” Dilan said, honest as always, even when he knew the answer was the exact opposite of what Isa wanted to hear.

“Neither do I,” Aeleus admitted. “I can’t say I’d ever let him in without carding him, though. He looks about thirteen.”

“Well, he’s in.”

“Yes,” Aeleus said, hesitantly. “The thing is…I don’t remember letting him in. Ever, actually. It’s like he…just appears,” he finished lamely, knowing how ridiculous he sounded, and not needing Isa’s flat stare to confirm it. Even Dilan shot him a skeptical look.

Isa sighed. “Right. Dilan, stay here. If we haven’t managed to remove him by nine-thirty, just tell Lea to wait backstage, or we’re all going to jail.” Dilan nodded, and Isa and Aeleus headed for table six. They passed the bar, where Demyx was once again leaning on the counter to chat with Braig, taking advantage of the lapse in drink orders while the crowd flocked to the stage in anticipation of Lea’s show. Braig pointed conspicuously at the kid and gave a thumbs-up when Isa nodded, and Demyx shifted uncomfortably, dreading the imminent confrontation even when it in no way involved him.

As they approached the table, Isa wondered why he had even felt the need to tear one of their bouncers away from his post for this. But once the boy noticed them, Isa was glad for the backup. The kid’s poker face was good enough to rival his own, a fact that was as annoying as it was unsettling.

He looked up at them from behind absurdly messy bangs. Aeleus said nothing, deferring to Isa’s lead, and Isa said nothing out of a petty and unprofessional desire to make the kid speak first. A decision he regretted when the boy finally said, “Yes?” as though they were intruding on his precious time and owed him an explanation.

“Higanbana is an adults-only venue as of twenty minutes ago,” Isa said. “I’m going to have to request that you show me your ID.”

“All right,” the boy said. And he continued to sit there, staring. Isa stared back. Aeleus did his best not to fidget, though he did glance back at Dilan, who was keeping an eye on the situation from across the room. After a few more seconds of itchingly uncomfortable silence, the kid took mercy on them and said, “Oh. Was that the request?”

“Yes,” Isa said, able to keep the exasperation out of his voice with years of emotional repression and every fiber of self-discipline he had.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, too neutrally for them to tell if he was being sincere or not. “I misunderstood. Your phrasing was a little ambiguous.”

“I believe he was very clear,” Aeleus said. The boy’s eyes darted to him as if he’d only just noticed he was there, which was impossible, but still made Aeleus feel inexplicably dismissed.

“Have you shown anyone here your ID?” Isa went on.

“I haven’t ordered anything alcoholic.”

“That’s not what I asked. Who checked you at the door?”

“I don’t think I remember.”

“There’s only two of us,” Aeleus said, and Isa held up his hand to cut him off. He hated doing things like that, but it was hard to convince himself that they were in control of the situation when Aeleus, of all people, started to sound aggravated.

“Regardless,” Isa said, “the show is starting soon. Please hand over your license.”

“I don’t drive.”

“Do you have a student ID?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

“Oh. Well, not _with_ me.”

Isa wondered if holding back eyerolls on a regular basis could cause lasting physical damage. If so, the damage was probably already done. Unable to keep a bit of snappishness out of his voice, he finally said, “Are you eighteen years of age or older?”

“Yes.”

Isa’s next sentence, which he’d intended to be something along the lines of, “Then please vacate the premises, or Aeleus will have to escort you out,” caught in his throat. He scrutinized the boy for any signs of lying, and he was met with that same stare, blank slate gray. Isa turned to Aeleus for assistance, glad he’d brought him along after all, if only to have an eyewitness to confirm that he wasn’t losing his mind.

Aeleus didn’t return his look. Isa watched as the two stared each other down, the boy’s face revealing nothing, and Aeleus’ face revealing all of his doubt and confusion because he had nothing to hide. After a few long moments that had Isa nervously checking the stage and giving Dilan a “hold on” look, Aeleus, stalwart and sure, gave the boy a final once-over and simply said, “No, you’re not.”

The kid stared at Aeleus, as if he were trying to retroactively force the man to back down. But Aeleus held his gaze, and the longer their patron sat there without speaking, the more confidence Isa had that Aeleus was right. Finally, without another word, the boy simply stood up and walked away, so abruptly yet smoothly that Isa barely registered that he’d gone until he was already out the door.

When Aeleus was sure that he had really left and wasn’t coming back, he turned to Isa and shrugged. “Guess that’s that.” Isa nodded. It seemed simple enough, now that the kid was gone. With a quick and professional thank you, he sent Aeleus back to his station, signaled to Dilan that Lea was all set to go on, and returned to his post by the door.

* * *

All’s well that ends well, Braig would sometimes say. Usually in a pointed tone, when Isa was going over the to-do list at the end of the night and Braig was leaning on a mop handle, already half asleep. But that saying only applied if things actually ended when he thought they did.

The next encounter took place shortly after the club opened on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Braig and Aeleus were the only active members of staff, which was typical for this time of day. Isa was almost never on the floor during afternoon hours, when the majority of patrons were under eighteen and had come straight from school. Braig once asked what Isa’s problem was with the high school crowd, and Isa responded, without hesitation, that he didn’t like being around teenagers. Said he didn’t even like himself until he was twenty-three. He’d said it in his usual dry tone, and Braig had laughed, though he didn’t doubt it for a second.

On this particular day, there wasn’t much for even Braig to do. The teens were horrible tippers, and once they’d gotten their drinks, they mostly sat in the lounge area, talking loudly about their antics at school, trying to show off, or talking in what they assumed were hushed tones about the adult shows that would occur later, or about the back rooms, which none of them had ever seen, but which they were _sure_ existed. Braig would have happily confirmed their suspicions if it weren’t strictly against policy to discuss it with them. It’s not like the Silhouette Rooms were a secret; on the contrary, they were one of the club’s main selling points. Didn’t exactly take a super sleuth to figure that one out.

So Braig busied himself with wiping down the shelves at the back of the bar, tuning out the students’ inane chatter while he lifted bottles one at a time and swiped a damp cloth underneath them. Let Isa fret over the total lack of dust next time he tried to find something amiss with Braig’s workstation. That’d show him.

When he finished cleaning the lowest shelves, Braig rose to his feet, bracing his hands against his thighs and wondering when he stopped being young enough to simply stand up without that extra bit of help. He glanced in the mirror and—though he’d never admit it—almost jumped when he saw the reflection of the silver-haired boy, sitting behind him at the counter. His hands were folded in his lap, as though he’d been sitting there for the past few minutes, silently waiting for Braig to notice him.

And Braig, who hadn’t seen the boy arrive, realized that this was well within the realm of possibility.

Ever the professional (no matter how much his coworkers claimed otherwise), Braig relaxed his shoulders, appearing mildly surprised and even pleased as he turned around to greet the boy. “Well, well, look who it is,” Braig said, as though they were old acquaintances with an established routine. “A False Theory, I assume? Or are we gonna branch out and try something new today?”

The boy regarded him inscrutably, a look he’d worn often enough that it was starting to annoy Braig more than unnerve him. “Something new, I think,” he said, and before Braig could ask what he wanted, he removed an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the counter. Braig almost laughed at how clandestine it was.

“What’s this?” he asked as the boy placed his hand back in his lap.

“An envelope.”

“What’s _in_ the envelope, smartass?”

“Open it.”

And after a moment’s consideration, Braig did, partly out of genuine curiosity, and partly to prove that he didn’t need to prove himself by rejecting the kid’s order. He tapped an index card out of the envelope and furrowed his brow.

“Ienzo Nozawa,” he read aloud. “D.O.B. December 25, 2000.” He flipped the card over to inspect the back, which was blank. The boy—Ienzo, if that much was true—watched Braig with a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, not quite smiling, but clearly holding back. Finally, Braig looked at him again. “Is this a joke?”

“Is it funny?”

“…little bit, yeah,” Braig said, examining the matter-of-fact writing again. He considered giving the kid a harder time, but generally, he was a fan of giving credit where it was due.

Ienzo’s face went blank again, that bare hint of a smile gone as if it never was. “Well, I’m no professional,” he said, tilting his head in an odd variation of a shrug. “Perhaps you could show me how to make one that’s more convincing. ”

He said it so nonchalantly that it could have easily been another joke. But his eyes, void of emotion and brimming with knowledge, were locked on Braig’s, and Braig gave him an opposing, golden stare right back. “What you’re suggesting,” he said, not slowly, but carefully, each word weighing twice what it normally would, “is illegal.”

Ienzo looked scandalized. “Is it?” he said. “That’s alarming. So if I knew someone was doing something like that, I should report them?”

Braig’s gaze was fixed so intently on the kid’s face that it might as well have had crosshairs.

“One of my peers was talking about getting a fake ID recently,” Ienzo went on, effortlessly casual, as though he had only just remembered. “He said it was some ‘one-eyed dickwad’ who could hook him up with one. You wouldn’t happen to have met any other men with only one eye, would you, Braig?”

“Can’t say I have,” Braig replied, not the slightest bit surprised that the kid already knew his name. “Can’t say I haven’t, either.”

“Well, regardless. My peer was caught. I took the liberty of informing his legal guardian what he’d been up to.”

“This is a very serious thing to accuse someone of,” Braig said, and Ienzo looked puzzled.

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” he said, and Braig knew he was right. Technically. He finally cast a quick glance around the club, making sure there was no sign of Isa and that Aeleus was still on the other side of the room.

“What, _exactly_ ,” he said, “is it that you’re looking for?”

“I just wanted to inform you of what I’d found out,” Ienzo said. “I know a situation like fake IDs can negatively impact a business. I appreciate this place and enjoy coming here. I’m only trying to look out for one of my favorite venues.”

“That so?”

“It’s so.”

“…well.” Braig stood up straight, only now realizing how much he’d been leaning forward. “Thank you _so_ much for helping out your local nightclub. How about that False Theory, on the house?”

“No, thank you.”

Braig paused, bottle already in hand. “Oh, something new?” he remembered, switching up the ingredients. “I recommend a virgin Wishing Star.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Braig was starting to get that creeping feeling, one he hadn’t experienced in a long time. One he made a concerted effort to avoid.

Debt.

“C’mon,” Braig said, trying to sound like he was pressuring Ienzo instead of pleading with him. He’d rather get his millionth lecture on professionalism from Isa than let the kid think he’d won. “How about a free entry in our next raffle night?”

“You guys have raffle nights?”

“Sure do. How many tickets can I put you down for? Three? Five? Ten? Well, not ten. I can do you five.”

“That’s very generous,” Ienzo said. “But, again, no thank you. I’m not comfortable accepting goods or services for free.”

_Of course you aren’t_ , Braig thought, _because you’re not a fucking moron._

“Really, I insist,” he said, aware that he was only digging himself deeper. He started gathering ingredients for a drink anyway, hoping that the kid would feel obligated to accept it if it was already made. Ienzo started to get up from his stool, and Braig said, “How about one for the road? It’s on me.”

Ienzo looked at Braig, taking in his demeanor, affirming that everything he’d said and everything he hadn’t was fully sinking in. He smiled a thin, controlled smile, one that left his eyes untouched, and said the exact thing Braig didn’t want to hear. “That’s all right. You can just owe me.”

And with that, he left. And for the first time since he lost his eye, Braig was starting to think that maybe he still had some blind spots left to scope out.

* * *

“I need a round of Bubble Blasters, a Deep Freeze, a Monochrome Dream, and a Limp Oscar. And the will to live,” Demyx added as he slumped against the bar.

“ _L’impeto Oscuro_ ,” Braig said, suspecting that Demyx had almost offensively mispronounced the name just to get him to say it. Demyx’s grin was all the confirmation he needed.

“You gotta teach me how to say this shit.”

“Yeah? Invite me over some night, and you’ll be fluent by morning.”

“Sweet. It’s a date.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Heh.” Demyx flipped over, leaning back almost flat on the counter, looking up at the ceiling and swinging his feet idly while Braig worked at lightning speed to get the drinks ready. “Hey, our little friend’s back. Didn’t he get banned or something?”

“Man, you’re outta the loop. He was just asked to leave for the night.”

“So he _is_ under eighteen?”

“Seventeen. He’ll be eighteen in December. Finally saw his student ID.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ienzo.”

“Huh.” Demyx sat up and looked across the room to table six, where the high schooler was engrossed in, of all things, a book. “So, what, is he a regular now or something?”

“Looks like it.” Braig finished the drinks, pouring a little more haphazardly than usual, and slid the tray down to Demyx. The barback hoisted it up, then paused, counting the glasses.

“Uh…?”

“False Theory,” Braig said. “For the kid.”

“Oh. Did he…order this?”

Braig gave Demyx a flat look. “He has a tab.”

“…of course he does.”


	5. Beneath The Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Aqua, Terra, and Ven.

Aqua and Terra always strove to be honest, especially with themselves. They fully acknowledged that they were underprepared to become foster parents, a term Terra kept telling Aqua not to use, and one Aqua continued to use often enough for both of them. They knew that setting up for Ven’s arrival and accommodating him in their lives would take up most, if not all, of what little free time they had left. They were unflinchingly realistic, and at no point did they assume that they would get through the process without making a plethora of mistakes.

Which made it all the more frustrating when they realized they had _still_ underestimated the difficulty in adopting a sixteen-year-old. Merlin had been extremely flexible with their housing situation, thankfully. He let them move to a three-bedroom unit just a few doors down, which seemed miraculously convenient until it was time to transport their furniture. Sometime during the fifth journey up and down the stairs, across the sidewalk, and up and down the stairs again, they considered just keeping the old place and taking turns sleeping on the couch. But after a long day of packing, moving, unpacking, and not speaking to each other for fear of misdirecting their aggravation and getting into an all-out fistfight, they had done it.

And that was the easy part.

The paperwork alone was dizzying in both volume and content. As they filled out their forms in the shelter lobby, Aqua leaned over and whispered, “Don’t laugh, but is ‘imbursement’ a word? As in ‘reimbursement,’ but without the ‘re-.’” Terra stared at the paper in his hands, questioning whether he’d written his own birthdate correctly. “Doesn’t the ‘re-’ imply that it’s a word on its own? Like…can you _re_ imburse someone without ‘imbursing’ them in the first place?”

“Who the hell let us think we were qualified for any of this?” was all Terra said in response, and they filled in the rest of the forms with pure guesswork.

The interviews were worse. They had assumed that poring over the legal documents beforehand would help them know what to expect, but by the time they got there, their brains were scrambled with new and confusing information. They staggered through the interview, woefully out of sync, cutting each other off or else remaining completely silent, assuming the other would speak up, and neither of them doing so until the interviewer was forced to repeat her question, to everyone’s shared embarrassment.

Even with the financial aid, their entire budget had to be reworked. So far they’d kept their finances separate, splitting the rent down the middle and sharing everything else on a case by case basis. Now they had a joint account for the reimbursements. They dedicated an evening to adding and subtracting expenses across all categories, factoring in a third person for the utilities, transportation costs, and grocery bills. Once they’d fine-tuned the budget to their satisfaction, they put every single document and folder in a box, then stuffed that box into a spare cabinet in the kitchen, grabbed some beers, and spent the rest of the night vegetating on the couch, watching an appropriately-timed _Three’s Company_ marathon until they fell asleep.

But the forms were approved, the interviewer called to tell them she was very impressed with their maturity and diligence (to which Terra had laughed and said “ _What_?” as soon as she hung up), their joint account received its first deposit, and the new apartment was already starting to feel like home.

The one thing they were still concerned about was Ven himself. They hadn’t wanted to run the idea by him before making sure it was feasible, afraid to death of getting his hopes up only to find out there was no way they’d get approved. But at the same time, they’d wanted him to somehow be the first to know. They had agreed on a compromise: they would go to the shelter and find out what kind of requirements they’d need to foster him. If nothing immediately disqualified them, they would talk to Ven and see if it was something he’d be interested in.

When they finally sat down with him, his reaction was mixed. He assured them it was definitely something he’d be interested in, and they believed him. But something checked his eagerness even as it shone in his eyes and his restless body language. Briefly, Aqua and Terra wondered whether this whole idea was too weird. They’d only met the kid a few times and run into him occasionally around campus. They wouldn’t even consider someone as a roommate under those circumstances, and here they were, offering to be his legal guardians for the next few years.

But something had drawn them together, and now that he had crossed their paths, they felt like he was meant to stay. Neither one of them could explain it better than that, nor did they really care to try. “It sounds crazy,” Terra said, “but it feels right. So let’s go with that.”

So Aqua picked Ven up at the shelter, having spent the morning clearing out her car only to find him waiting in the lobby with just two bags: a small knapsack and a duffel bag with his skateboard sticking halfway out. The sight made her feel sick with sadness, and she repeated Terra’s words to herself like a mantra. _This seems crazy, but it feels right_.

And it did. It felt right when Ven gave her a nervous smile, and when she saw how easily he walked out of the building with her, and when not one staff member stopped for a particularly heartfelt or meaningful good-bye. When she opened the trunk and reached for his duffel bag, awkwardly withdrawing her hand when she realized he was already putting it inside. When most of their trip back to Radiant Garden was spent in silence, with Aqua feeling at least ten years older than her age. When they crossed the town border and started to enter areas that Ven was familiar with, and would become more familiar with soon, and he brightened up a bit, scanning the signs and buildings they passed. When Aqua pulled up to the curb and then continued to drive a few more spaces, her muscle memory still taking her to the old apartment. When Ven stood back and let her take his duffel bag out of the trunk herself, already learning her patterns.

When she led Ven to the front door and fumbled with the keys, laughing and apologizing, reminding him that this was a new apartment for all three of them, and not to feel nervous, because they were all in the same boat. And he smiled in agreement, although he didn’t really agree, because how could it be the same at all for them as it was for him? And Aqua knew it, too, but she’d be damned if she let him think for a second that he was a guest in his own home.

When Terra stepped out of the kitchen as they entered the apartment, and Ven loosened up a little, and then stiffened again when Terra wrapped him in a hug and ruffled his hair. When Aqua, deeply familiar with that greeting, said, “Yeah, you’ll have to get used to that,” and Ven rubbed his head self-consciously and laughed.

It all felt new, and awkward, and right.

And then they closed the door and stood together in the foyer, and no one knew what was supposed to come next. Five seconds in, and panic caught Aqua’s brain in a vice. Silence had descended. They had already run out of things to say. _This was a mistake. We weren’t ready for this. What if no one speaks first? What if no one ever says_ anything _? I can’t learn sign language right now. I’m too busy. I just adopted a teenager. Holy shit._

“Hey,” Ven said, “what’s in the kitchen? It smells good.”

“Oh?” Terra said. “Yeah. Uh, dinner’s on. Won’t be ready for a little while though. But if you’re hungry now, we’ve got snacks,” he added urgently, as though the kid might be literally starving. “C’mon, I can get you something.”

“Maybe he’d like to settle in first,” Aqua suggested pointedly, but carefully, because what did she know? Maybe he _would_ like something to eat now. Ven hiked his knapsack a little higher on his bird bone shoulders.

“Yeah, that’d be cool. Um…where am I sleeping?” Aqua saw his gaze flit to the couch, and again, the sickly sad feeling overcame her, starting in her chest and radiating outward.

“We set up a room down the hall for you,” she said, not too gently, not wanting him to feel patronized, or to know how much she’d pitied him. “Come check it out and let us know what you think.” She cringed inwardly. Was that too much pressure? He didn’t have to let them know what he thought if he didn’t want to.

Terra led the way to Ven’s room, and both he and Aqua were silently thankful that they’d left it open; the last thing any of them needed the added suspense of a closed door. Terra stepped inside, holding his arm out to both showcase the room and invite Ven in.

“Tada,” he said with a little laugh. “Sorry it’s kind of sparse for now. We tried to cover the essentials, but as for decorating, we’ll leave that up to you. We just threw a few things together in the meantime,” he added, pointing out a lamp, a poster or two, and some trinkets spaced evenly across the dresser.

“A lot of it is from home,” Aqua said. “Where Terra and I grew up, I mean. I’ve actually had this one since I was…geez, four, maybe?” She picked up a polished stone, carved to depict a mountain range in shades of green and blue. She traced her finger along some thin yellow lines that dipped in and out of the valleys. “These were—well, _are_ —the hiking paths. Terra and I spent a lot of time out there as kids, thinking we were discovering trails everyone else had somehow missed.” She set it back down on the dresser. “Anyway. Let us know what you don’t want; we can either move things around or find something to replace them with. We—”

“I love it,” Ven said. Aqua halted, the rest of her sentence already forgotten. Ven stood in the center of the room, turning slowly as he took in every detail, from the plain floor-length curtains to the nightstand Terra and Aqua had snagged off the side of the road, to the posters of movies he’d never seen, to the row of keepsakes from their childhood in Departure. “Really.”

“Good,” Terra said, sounding relieved. He pointed to a door across the room. “Bathroom’s through there. It’s a three-quarter bath; hope that’s okay. Aqua and I share the one in the hallway. It’s a full, so if you need the tub, feel free to use it.”

“Again, we just got the essentials,” Aqua said. “We can take you shopping if you need anything or want different shampoo or whatever.”

“We’re pretty swamped with schoolwork these next couple weeks, but we’re usually free in the evenings. Just let us know if you want to go somewhere, and we can work it into our schedule.”

“The trolleys are usually reliable, too,” Aqua added. “I’ll grab you a schedule next time I’m out.”

“Thanks,” Ven said, a little dazed. Terra gave him a small smile, obviously holding back a bigger one.

“All right, well. Now that we’ve got your head spinning,” he laughed. “Just take your time and get settled in. Aqua and I are gonna go work on dinner.”

Ven nodded, and Terra and Aqua adjourned to the kitchen to chop vegetables and get the rice started. Terra had just put the cover on the pot when Ven wandered into the room.

“Hey,” Terra said, taking off his oven mitts. “Finished unpacking already?”

“Yeah. Didn’t really have much to unpack,” Ven said, more embarrassed than self-pitying. He tried to see the cooking area from where he stood, without entering the room fully, as if he were still waiting for permission to even be there. “What’re you making?”

“Thai,” Terra said. “Some rice and veggies, some fish, a little coconut. You like Thai food?”

“I dunno,” Ven said as he edged closer, curiously inspecting the ingredients. “Never had it. I do like coconut, though.”

“Well, we’ll go heavy on that,” Aqua said, setting a plate of vegetables on the table. “Here. You can help yourself until dinner’s ready.”

“Uh…thanks,” Ven said, looking at the carrots and celery sticks and cherry tomatoes. Aqua gave them a second glance to see if there were any problems she’d somehow missed in the washing and cutting process.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no,” Ven said, hurriedly. “Just, when you said ‘snack,’ I thought, like…chips or something.”

Terra chuckled. “Yeah, we tend to eat pretty healthy,” he said, almost apologetically. “We do keep some junk food around, but that’s mostly for TV nights. We could probably stand to cut back on take-out, too.”

“It’s not forbidden or anything,” Aqua added. “Terra and I just don’t buy stuff like that when we do the main shopping. But you can feel free to get whatever you want.”

“Oh.” Ven sat down at the table and picked at a carrot stick. “Yeah, I don’t really…have much spending munny.”

Aqua felt a rush of glee bubbling up in her, in anticipation of revealing yet another surprise. “Well, that leads us to a good point,” she said, sitting down with Ven while Terra mixed the rice and vegetables in a frying pan. “You know we get government assistance for fostering you, right?” Ven nodded. “In addition to that, Terra and I have opened a joint account that we’re both putting some of our income into. Now, for legal reasons, we’re in charge of most of your finances until you turn eighteen.”

“Sure.”

“The thing is,” Aqua went on, “the reimbursement covers necessities like food, clothing, medical stuff, and so on. There’s a monthly cap for each category—we’ll go over the forms with you, just so you know. But Terra and I thought it would be nice if you had your own card, too, like a weekly allowance. Just for fun purchases, like, say, if you wanted to splurge on junk food that isn’t covered by regular grocery costs, or go see a movie or something.”

“We can get into the finer details later,” Terra said. “But we were thinking somewhere in the ballpark of 100 munny a week?”

“…100 munny? A week?”

“I know it doesn’t sound like much,” Aqua said, thinking about the amount she and Terra spent on transportation alone, and wondering why they hadn’t made more use of the trolleys over the past several years. “But remember, the necessities will already be covered. This would purely be your own personal spending money. And it rolls over. If you want to spend it all at the arcade one week, you can. Or if you want to save up for a few weeks and get something bigger, you can do that, too.”

“And if you need an advance, just let us know,” Terra said. “We can’t work miracles, but we’ve got room for flexibility.”

“Does this all sound okay so far?” Aqua asked, lowering her head a little to meet Ven’s gaze. He was staring at the opposite end of the table.

“Uh…yeah,” he replied, stuttering out a laugh. “Um. This is kind of a lot to take in. I don’t think I’ve ever had 100 munny in my life.”

Aqua’s gaze softened even more, and she glanced at Terra, the two of them sharing openly sympathetic looks. “Well, you’ll have it now,” she said gently, wanting to reach out and comfort Ven in some way, but feeling like they’d already overwhelmed him enough for one afternoon.

“We’re not wealthy by any means,” Terra threw in. “We do have to stick to a pretty routine budget. But we can make things work, you know? If you need help, just tell us, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Got it?” Aqua asked, and Ven nodded.

“Got it,” he said. “I mean, it’ll take a while to get used to. Like…a long while.” He laughed nervously again, but he finally lifted his gaze from the table. “Thanks, guys.”

“Sure thing,” Terra said, grabbing the pan and scraping everything into a heap on a serving dish. “Now, that’s enough business. Time for food. Ven, can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah. Uh—yes, please.”

“What do you like?” Terra asked, opening the fridge while Aqua grabbed the plates and silverware, already thinking how nice it was, how balanced, to set three places at the table. “We’ve got water, almond milk, OJ, sparkling water, which Aqua likes for some reason—”

“Hey.”

“—lemonade. Ginger ale, somewhere, I think? Iced tea, just brewed yesterday. Did I mention OJ?”

“Yeah,” Ven said. “Plus, uh, I have eyes.”

“He has eyes, Terra.”

“And I have ears, Aqua,” Terra said, swinging the refrigerator door open wide. “Well, come on up and help yourself.” He left Ven to consider his options and helped Aqua serve dinner. When Ven sat down with a small glass of ginger ale, Aqua and Terra took their seats, and together the three of them began eating their first meal together. The conversation flowed more easily with the addition of food. Ven even teased Terra about his oven mitts and their dated paisley pattern, to which Terra replied that he had found them in the bargain bin at a thrift store, and that Ven would be lending a hand with dinner next time, so he’d better warm up to them fast.

At the end of the meal, Ven reached for his plate, but Terra picked it up first, and Aqua swiped his empty glass. Not wanting to feel useless, he busied himself by straightening the placemats and brushing a few stray crumbs into his palm. “That was great, guys,” he said. “Where’d you learn how to cook like that?”

“Just practice,” Terra said. “You’ll pick it up in no time. We’ll try out a few different dishes this week and see what you like.”

“I hope you saved some room, though,” Aqua said as she loaded the dishwasher, leaving Terra to wipe down the counter and stovetop. “We’ve got a surprise for you later.”

“Really?” Ven asked, his eyes lighting up. “What is it?”

Aqua smiled a sly, pleased little smile. “You’ll see.”

* * *

“Oh, wow,” Ven said from the backseat of Aqua’s car as they cruised through a familiar set of gates. “School.”

“Mhmm,” Terra said, smiling in the passenger seat as Aqua took them through the dim lamplight of the campus commons. “You excited?”

“Well, I’m definitely surprised, I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t worry,” Aqua said, parking in front of the science building and digging in her bag for a set of keys and a flashlight. “You’ll love this.”

Ven looked doubtful, but he followed them in, using a side entrance and hallways that he wouldn’t have recognized even with the lights on. When they reached the fourth floor and stopped at the roof access ladder, he said, “All right, seriously. What’s going on?”

“Just come on,” Aqua said, already climbing the ladder. Ven cast a hesitant glance at Terra, who simply held his hand out, inviting Ven to go next.

“I’m right behind you,” he said. There was a soft creak above them as Aqua opened the hatch, and cool evening air sank into the building. Ven could hear the chirp of nighttime insects, even this high up, and it urged him on until he was at the top of the ladder, poking his blond head through the open hatch like a prairie dog. Aqua was already standing on the roof, and he took her hand as she reached down to help him the rest of the way. She did the same for Terra while Ven looked left, then right, then lifted his gaze as he spun in a slow circle, following an imaginary spiral up into the night sky.

“Neat, huh?” Terra said, dusting his hands on his pants. Ven made a vague noise of agreement, distracted by the speckled starlight. Aqua kept an eye on him while Terra grabbed a few things stashed by the edge of the roof. The sound caught Ven’s attention, and he looked down again to see Terra setting up three folding chairs and a small table.

“What’s this?” Ven asked with a confused laugh. “Are we having a second dinner?”

“Dessert,” Terra corrected him, placing a small cooler beside the table.

“Dessert? What’s the occasion?”

“You are,” Aqua said. “We’re celebrating.”

“…what?” Ven said, still not understanding, or just doubting that he did.

“You heard her,” Terra said, lifting the lid off the cooler to show Ven its contents: a few slices of cake with strawberries, some ice cream bars, and a large glass bottle. Ven looked at Terra expectantly.

“Champagne?”

“Sparkling cider,” Aqua corrected, with a hint of sternness in her voice. “We don’t have many house rules, but the legal drinking age is one we stand by.”

“Got it, got it,” Ven laughed, showing his palms. “I was just kidding. I’ve never had champagne. I’ve never had sparkling cider, either, come to think of it.”

“Well, this is a whole day of firsts for you, then,” Terra said, setting three glasses on the table and pouring the drinks. “Speaking of which…you ever seen a meteor shower?”

“…no,” Ven said slowly, daring to get his hopes up. “Am I about to?”

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Terra said, grinning broadly. “The best one in decades, supposedly.”

“We didn’t want to say anything earlier because there was a fifty percent chance of rain,” Aqua said, barely able to contain her excitement now that their plan was unfolding. “But this is the clearest night we’ve had all week. And there’s a campus-wide blackout to maximize the viewing experience. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars. Not since Departure, anyway.”

“Aqua and I are from a really small town,” Terra explained. “Small, but well-lit. It was a perfect location to watch the meteor showers, but you had to hike an hour outside town just to see them. We used to go up the mountain trails and watch from the cliffs.”

“That sounds awesome,” Ven said, smiling faintly at the visual of them as kids, exploring the mountains together, doing things he’d never even dreamed of. But here he was now, not quite on a cliff, but on the roof of the science building. Not quite in the mountains, but near enough to see their silhouettes on the horizon.

“Well, hey,” Aqua said, “before it starts…” She held her glass out between the three of them, and Terra did the same. Ven followed suit, still a little self-conscious.

“I propose a toast,” Aqua said, overly formal. And then, looking to her left, she added, “Terra?”

“…gee, thanks,” he said, lowering his arm as he tried to come up with something good. Ven politely held back a laugh, though Aqua caught his eye and gave him a smug smile. Finally, Terra raised his glass again, and the other two put their serious faces on and did the same.

“To friendship,” he said. They continued to hold their glasses aloft until Aqua cleared her throat.

“Is there…any more?”

“Does there need to be?” Terra countered. Aqua thought it over, then clinked her glass against Terra’s and Ven’s.

“To friendship.”

Ven tapped his glass against Terra’s, and they stood in silence for a while, sipping their drinks, listening to the crickets, looking at the stars. Ven was just about to ask if they could start eating when he suddenly reached out and gave Aqua a light shove, impulse getting the better of him as he pointed upward. “Hey! I saw one!”

“Yeah?” Terra said, scanning the sky.

“Yeah,” Ven said as his wide eyes darted all around the stars. “Guess it’s gone now. But it was really cool. It just— _there_!” he said, pointing again, and this time Aqua and Terra caught the tail end of the meteor before it vanished into the darkness.

“All right, the show’s started,” Terra said, crouching down to unload the cooler. Aqua placed the food neatly on the table, and Ven, for all his eagerness to dig into the desserts, kept an eye out for more meteors. He counted five before Terra said, “Hey, you wanna get a crick in your neck? Come on, have a seat. Sky’s not going anywhere.”

Ven looked back at them and paused. What he’d expected to see was Terra and Aqua—the lifelong friends—sitting side by side, and a leftover chair on the end for him. What he saw instead was Terra on one side and Aqua on the other, and the chair in the middle left empty.

And that was when it stopped feeling like a dream. Carefully, Ven put his glass down on the table and took his seat, not tacked on as an afterthought, but in a space deliberately made for him between the pair.

Gratitude swelled in him like a wave, and saddened him. He wanted to tell them that he’d never had a homemade meal like the one they’d served him, that he’d never tried Thai food, or sparkling cider, or seen so many drink options in one fridge. He’d never in his life had 100 munny to spend as he wished. He’d never been on a roof, or seen meteors, or been something worth celebrating. He’d never lived in an apartment. He’d never even had his own room.

But they knew, and he knew that they knew. And instead of trying to explain how thankful he was, he simply accepted the slice of cake they handed him and started eating. Terra and Aqua briefly reached across Ven so Terra could transfer his strawberries to Aqua’s plate, and Ven knew then that anything else they needed to say that evening could be said without words. Terra slouched in his chair on the left, resting his ankle on his knee while he ate. Aqua, seated on the right, shut the lid of the cooler so she could prop her feet on it. And Ven, sitting cross-legged between them, watched the meteors blink in and out of sight among a backdrop of stars, finally feeling like a fixed point in a constellation of his own.


	6. Again, From Out Of Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Vanitas and Naminé.

It was both an insult and a blessing whenever Xehanort managed to forget about his grandson’s existence. On these days, Vanitas didn’t need to pick locks or climb gates. He walked straight out the front door with his camera equipment, and neither his grandfather nor the cleaning staff gave him a first thought, let alone a second. It almost took the fun out of his days off when he didn’t have to sneak away to enjoy them.

While his appearance and general demeanor suggested otherwise, Vanitas thrived in the open air and sunshine. He had tried to indulge in video games and TV shows, based on overheard recommendations from his classmates, but they couldn’t hold his attention for long. His favorite activities remained outdoor ones, either scoping out areas to photograph or simply walking the streets and trails of Radiant Garden, sometimes spending all day out there and feeling his pulse down to his soles when he finally got back to campus.

Plus, he needed the fresh air. Apparently, it didn’t matter how distinguished a person was—the mothball smell seemed to come naturally with age, and Xehanort was no exception. The cleaning staff used a cocktail of lemon-scented products that did nothing to mask the smell, and instead seemed to join forces with it. Yet another advantage Vanitas’ old home had over his current one: no mustiness. The trade-off was dry air that led to cracked lips and sore cuticles, not to mention the occasional sandstorm. But nothing festered, nothing molded or mildewed. Rainfall, which was once a luxury to Vanitas, was so commonplace here that he wondered why he ever longed for it. All it did was dampen the soil, creating a thick smell that clung to his nose and the back of his throat and made him want to gag every time he passed a flower bed. Which, in a town named for its gardens, was all too often.

But he had plans today that would lead him away from the flowers and the mulch and the sickening smell of freshly cut lawns. He went to the shopping district and poked around the alleys, peering behind dumpsters, lifting the lids off trash barrels, rocking stray cans and boxes with the toe of his sneaker to see if there was anything interesting inside. It fascinated him, the things people here threw away. The same items that bored him in storefront windows enthralled him once they were tossed in the garbage. It was risky work. He’d already been yelled at and, on one embarrassing occasion, chased away with a broom for climbing a dumpster just to see what was in it. Scavenging had been laughably easy in the desert. When people threw their junk out of moving vehicles, turning a once functional chair or appliance into a shattered mess on the side of the road, they meant to leave it, and they never looked back. Here, people were territorial about their trash.

It occurred to Vanitas, not for the first time, that he felt cleaved, one half of him remaining back home while the other foraged for entertainment and sustenance here in the city. He lived with a constant double vision of where he was and where he had been, unable to stop comparing and contrasting Radiant Garden with his life back in the desert.

He clamped one hand over his nose and mouth while he picked through a trash can with the other, fighting a losing battle to keep his sweatshirt sleeve rolled up. After the fourth coffee filter, he accepted that there was nothing interesting to find, and that he was now going to smell like bitter coffee grounds for at least the rest of the morning. He wiped his hands on his jeans and put the lid back on the trash can, considering that a visit to the hiking trails might yield more promising results. It was easily the most intriguing scenery in Radiant Garden, with the twisting paths and odd outcroppings of stone and crystal, drenched in a striking cobalt blue. It remained a mystery to Vanitas why the place was almost always devoid of tourists. Especially as he had to pick his way through a crowd of them just to walk one block in the marketplace.

He avoided eye contact with most of them and stayed on the lookout for interesting subject matter. The restaurant areas were usually a good spot, and sure enough, as he passed another alley, he saw a small cluster of ravens picking at some scraps from breakfast. It wasn’t much, but he refused to return to his darkroom with an empty roll of film when he had an entire day with which to fill it.

He crouched at the alley entrance, eternally grateful that he’d brought his lens attachment so he could keep a safe distance from the birds. He lined up his camera for a good shot, shuffling a few inches to the left and right, searching for the most dynamic angle. He was weighing the pros and cons of trying to climb the nearby fire escape when he heard a whine and a bark from somewhere behind him. It sounded far, at least on the other side of the street, but it still made him jump, and the birds raised their heads briefly before returning to their meal. When Vanitas was sure they were going to stay put, he looked over his shoulder to see what was going on.

Much more interesting subject matter, for one thing. A large but scrawny mutt was pacing in front of an alley not unlike the one Vanitas was crouched in. Its fur was a dull reddish brown and matted on its belly and the insides of its legs. It carried itself in an odd way: back arched like a cat’s, head low, but eyes looking up at passersby. Vanitas couldn’t tell if its look was a pleading one or a warning to stay away. Its tail was wagging, but that meant nothing to him. Snakes rattled their tails as a threat. Some animals kept their heads low in submission, some in preparation to attack. And he didn’t know enough about dogs to be sure which it was.

Besides, it wasn’t the dog that held his attention. It was the girl who was trying to pass the alley, clutching her art bag as if it were simultaneously something to protect and something she hoped would protect her. She was as close to the busy road as she dared to go, walking briskly along the edge of the sidewalk.

She had the dog’s attention, too. It seemed determined to guard its territory, but as soon as the girl cleared the alley and continued on her way, it whined again and took a few cautious steps after her. The girl looked back, then quickened her pace, and the dog, encouraged by her continued attention, pursued her with more confidence. Its whines seemed to fill her with sympathetic anxiety; her shoulders tensed and rose higher with each noise. Her voice was inaudible over the tourist chatter and traffic, and Vanitas remembered from their last encounter that she’d barely managed to eke out a full sentence. But he watched closely, and she seemed to be telling the dog over her shoulder, “Go away.”

Through either some odd spark of altruism, or maybe just to clear his conscience from the last time he ran into her, Vanitas cut across the road, holding his hand out to a car that came to an abrupt stop and honked. “Hey,” he said, hopping onto the sidewalk. He meant to address the dog, but both it and the girl turned at the sound of his voice. A few passersby parted to let him through, though none of them seemed to take notice of the situation beyond that, filtering around the girl and the dog as if they were an ordinary part of the day. _Assholes_ , Vanitas thought. And even worse, _lazy_ assholes. At least he was an asshole who took action.

He approached the dog carefully but without trepidation, not wanting it to think he was afraid. And truthfully, he wasn’t. Up close, it was clear the dog was wary at worst. He took another step toward it, deliberately scuffing his already scuffed sneakers on the pavement and feeling some satisfaction when the dog flinched away. “Go on, git,” he said, scuffing his foot again and risking a wave of his arm, hoping the dog wouldn’t see the limb as a target. It may have been afraid, but it still had teeth.

Luckily, a bit of posturing was all it took. The dog retreated to the alley, its tail whisking around the corner as it fled. Vanitas waited a few extra minutes to see if it would creep back out to the sidewalk, but it was gone.

He glanced at the girl, who still clutched her art bag, still looked a little wide-eyed and shaken. Something about her was disheveled—not so much in appearance, except for the sloppy braid that fell over her shoulder, but in her energy. She was like a thread loosely wrapped around a spool, ready to unravel at the slightest movement.

“You all right?” Vanitas asked. The girl nodded stiffly, pinching a bit of fraying fabric on her bag.

“Thank you,” she said, more clearly than last time.

“Sure. You know, the dogs aren’t that bad around here. Next time, kick up a little fuss, make some noise, and they’ll go running. Otherwise, they’ll just follow you all the way home.”

“Yes,” she said, and then added, confusingly, “I’m sorry.”

Vanitas blinked. “Uh…it’s okay?”

She hesitated, and Vanitas felt like she was waiting for him to go on, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. So, with a brisk nod—dismissal, gratitude, who knew?—she continued on to where she’d been going before she was held up by the dog and, technically, Vanitas.

He shrugged to straighten out his hoodie and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His camera swung like a pendulum from his shoulder as he looked back at the alley he’d come from. The ravens were gone. Figured.

His stomach growled, and he pulled out his phone to check the time. Almost eleven. He hadn’t planned to eat for another two hours, but as usual, his day wasn’t going remotely the way he’d planned. As he slid his phone back into his pocket, he noticed the smudge of purple paint on the back, and he almost laughed. Both times he’d seen this girl had been inexplicably odd. She always seemed eager to leave as quickly as possible, whether he had inconvenienced her and destroyed her property or run across a busy street to save her from a dog. He wondered if he was destined to keep having these strange encounters with her that ended as abruptly as they began, leaving him more bewildered than anything.

When he walked into Bailey’s, he realized that, yes, apparently he _was_ destined to have awkward encounter after awkward encounter with this girl, because there she was, already placing her order. He considered walking right back out the door; she’d made it very clear that she didn’t want to be around him any longer than necessary. But before he could move, she turned around, and her gaze landed on him.

To his continued surprise and confusion, she smiled. It was a small smile, a very precise curve of her lips, but it looked sincere. She didn’t have to do it. And the wide-eyed look she’d had on the sidewalk was gone. Vanitas, not knowing why, waved to her, and she waved back. He took his place in line, thinking that was a good note to end on, this third encounter bringing a sense of resolution like a fairytale rule of three, breaking the spell so they could get on with their lives. But once she received her drink, she walked over and rejoined the line to stand with him.

“We meet again,” she said, somehow infusing a laugh into her words without actually laughing.

“So we do. I promise, I’m not stalking you,” Vanitas added, immediately hating himself for doing so. If there was one thing you shouldn’t have to tell a complete stranger, it’s that you weren’t stalking her.

This time she did laugh, to his relief. She was almost an entirely different person compared to the deer in the headlights he’d met on the sidewalk five minutes ago. Her posture was looser, her face a little more relaxed. And she apparently had a sense of humor, at least enough to assume that his dumb comments were intentional jokes.

“Hey, um,” she said as the line moved up, following along as Vanitas approached the counter. “Thanks again for helping me back there. I’m not really good with dogs.”

“Yeah, it was no big deal. You looked like you needed a hand, so.”

She smiled again, this time a little self-conscious. “Well, I did. So thank you.” Vanitas nodded. She still stood beside him, and again, Vanitas wondered if she was waiting for him to say something. He wasn’t a mind-reader. He could barely keep up with his own thoughts. But before he could take a stab at filling in the silence, she said, “I don’t know if you’re staying, but I was going to grab a table over in the corner. If you _did_ want to stay, I could save you a seat?”

Vanitas hesitated, and her startled look came back, as if she’d only just heard what she said. “You don’t have to, of course,” she rushed to say. “You’re probably busy, and you’ve already taken enough time out—”

“Sure,” Vanitas said, as surprised by his own words as she seemed to have been by hers. She skidded to a halt midsentence and waited, and this time Vanitas was positive that it was his turn to keep speaking. “Sure,” he said again, “that sounds nice.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, as if he hadn’t just affirmed it twice. Vanitas would’ve sworn she was teasing him if she didn’t look so earnest. “I don’t want to impose on your time.”

“You’re not imposing. I was gonna grab breakfast anyway.”

“All right,” she said, still sounding uncertain, but that small, pleasant smile returning. “I’ll grab a table.” And then, after a quick breath, she added, “I’m Naminé, by the way.”

“Vanitas.”

“Nice to meet you, Vanitas. Again.” She gave him another small wave and went to claim a table, and Vanitas stared at the menu up on the wall, wondering what kind of day he would’ve had if it actually _had_ gone as planned.

He got his coffee and food and quickly spotted Naminé off in a corner. She was rummaging through her bag, but as soon as Vanitas set his food down, she closed it and turned her attention back to him. “Cinnamon muffin,” she said, inspecting his plate. “Good choice.”

“We’ll see. I haven’t had them here before.” He pulled off a piece of the top and nodded at her drink. “What’re you having?”

“French vanilla latte. And yours is—don’t tell me…coffee, black?”

“Double cream and triple caramel,” Vanitas said, enjoying the slight surprise on her face. It was a youthful expression, erasing the creases of worry she’d worn every time he’d seen her so far. “I used to drink it black, but it sucked. Gave up after a while.”

“Why were you drinking it if you didn’t like it?”

Vanitas shrugged, pressing his fingertip on the plate and picking up spare crumbs. “I dunno. People assumed that’s how I drank it in high school, and they thought I was trying to be edgy or something. I didn’t even drink coffee that much, but it was just annoying on principle, you know? Like, so what if I liked my coffee black? What’s wrong with that?”

“So, you started drinking coffee that you didn’t like…out of spite?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“…and how did that go for you?”

“Not so great. I’m now addicted to coffee _and_ I have a taste aversion to it. I can’t handle it if it isn’t overloaded with sugar.”

Naminé laughed softly and took a sip of her own drink. Vanitas picked off a few more pieces of the muffin before sliding it toward her, asking if she wanted any. She politely declined, and it sat between them, a focal point for yet another awkward silence. Naminé broke it first.

“That’s a nice camera,” she said, by which Vanitas knew she meant it was a big camera. Most people assumed it was expensive because of its size, willing to overlook the dated design and the gratuitous surface damage. The lens, at least, had survived this far without a scratch, a borderline miracle considering Vanitas’s clumsiness and the amount of sand in his previous home.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, lifting the strap over his head so he could place the camera on the table. Naminé considerately pulled her drink away from it and tilted her head to view it from the side. “It’s kind of banged up; I’ve had it for a long time. Still works, though.”

“Are you studying photography, or is it just a hobby?”

“I’m not taking classes or anything,” Vanitas said, not sure what to make of the phrase ‘just a hobby.’ “But I’ve been doing it for years. My earlier stuff was kind of lame. I didn’t really know anything about technique. I just tried to shoot the weirdest stuff I could find. There’s some pretty cool spots around here, though.”

“I’m sure,” Naminé said. “There’s actually—I don’t know if you’re into this or not—but there’s a new exhibit at one of the museums in the art district. They have a whole section on black and white photography. I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in…”

“Yeah, no, I’ve heard about that. The Remnants Collection, right? At Metamorphose, Metamorphosis, whatever?”

“Right,” Naminé said, her face lighting up. “They have all kinds of exhibits, not just photography. But the photography is supposed to be very good. It’s all modern artists, as well, which…I don’t know, I think is nice.” She trailed off, suddenly shy, a transition that drew Vanitas’ attention in even more.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was meaning to check it out at some point. Just kept forgetting to put it on my to-do list, I guess.”

“Me too.”

Vanitas knew what he should say next. He could hear the sentence in his mind. It was just a matter of whether he would work up the nerve to say it or not.

“Well, we could go together, if you wanted,” he said, solving that little mystery before he could think too much about what he was doing. Naminé raised her eyebrows, and Vanitas, suddenly fearing that he’d misinterpreted their entire conversation, started backpedaling. “I mean, we don’t have to, obviously. It’s just, I’m probably gonna go. And if you’ve been meaning to, but keep forgetting, then maybe if we both made a plan, and set a date…”

He raised his hands in a weak shrug, officially out of words, hoping that Naminé would have interrupted him by this point and put him out of his misery. But she simply watched and listened, letting him wind down of his own accord, and then she smiled again, soft and slightly disbelieving.

“That sounds nice,” she said. “I think—I’d like that.” Vanitas felt a wave of relief that he hadn’t expected and caught himself returning her small smile with one of his own.

“All right,” he said. “How about Monday? Probably won’t be too crowded.”

She hesitated. “Mondays might not work for me,” she said, slowly, as if she were afraid to contradict him. “Could we do Friday or Saturday instead?”

“Yeah, sure. Friday sounds good.”

Naminé nodded, and Vanitas could feel her tension ebbing away as quickly as it had rushed in. “All right,” she said. “This Friday, then? I’ll meet you there at…how does eleven sound?”

“Works for me.”

“Perfect.” Naminé dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then quickly put it down when she caught sight of the clock. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Vanitas said, glancing at the clock to see what her definition of ‘late’ was. _Don’t be a douchebag_ , he chided himself. _Maybe she has an appointment or something. You threw off her schedule just as much as she threw off yours_.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, gathering her things and picking up what remained of her latte. “I don’t mean to rush out. I just lost track of time.”

“Yeah, no worries. So, Friday at eleven?”

“Friday at eleven. I’ll see you there.” She used her napkin to sweep the crumbs off the table, then finished her drink in three quick gulps. Vanitas barely stifled a laugh at how at odds that behavior was with her otherwise prim, precise body language. She threw her trash away and smiled again, lifting one hand to the strap of her bag. “It was nice to meet you, Vanitas. Thanks again.”

“No problem. Nice to meet you, too. See ya,” he added as she made her way to the door. She gave him a quick wave before ducking outside as another group entered, and before Vanitas knew it, she was gone. He watched the door for a few seconds before returning to his muffin, eating the bottom half more out of obligation than any real enjoyment. Half an hour ago his day had been flipped upside down, but he wasn’t as bothered by it as he would’ve normally been. It wasn’t just because he’d helped a stranger, or possibly made a friend, or tried a cinnamon muffin, which he decided he actually kind of liked.

But because, for the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to.


	7. Just Another Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Vanitas and Naminé.

At 11:10, Vanitas was still on his way to the museum, drumming his fingers against the handrail and making the conductor say, “ _Please_ remain _inside_ the trolley _at all times_ ,” as he once again stuck his head out the window. At this rate, he wouldn’t get there until quarter past, at the earliest. She’d think he had forgotten, or worse, ditched her. How long would she wait? How long would _he_ have waited for someone? _Probably would’ve left by now_ , he thought, not proud of that fact, but self-critical enough to admit it.

It was 11:20 when he finally arrived at the Museum Metamorphose. He disembarked just before the trolley came to a full stop, clearing the steps in one leap and officially making an enemy of the conductor. As the trolley rolled away, it cleared his view across the road, and there was Naminé, standing at the foot of the museum’s large staircase. Vanitas’s worry eased as soon as he saw her. She looked calm, not impatient, not checking her phone, or fiddling with her bag, or looking around, wondering where he was. She stood exactly where she said she’d be, observing her surroundings with a contented look on her face, soaking up the sunlight.

When she saw him crossing the street, her eyes brightened, and she waved to catch his attention as if she didn’t already have it. “Hey,” she said as he joined her. “Glad you made it.”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late. Trolley was running behind today. You been waiting long?”

“No,” she said. “Well, about twenty minutes. But it’s beautiful out. I almost considered skipping the museum altogether and just spending the day outside.”

“Oh.” Vanitas looked up and down the road. “Well, we can do that, if you want. We don’t have to go to the museum.”

“No, no…I was just being facetious. Unless _you_ don’t want to go?”

“No, I do.”

There was a pause, and then they laughed at the same time, the small bubble of awkwardness dissipating between them as quickly as it had formed. “Well,” she said. “Shall we?”

They ascended the stairs side by side, and Vanitas tried to follow Naminé’s lead as she quietly crossed the lobby, though his sneakers squeaked on the polished floor with each step. He avoided eye contact with everyone until they reached the first exhibit, which, thankfully, was carpeted. But he noticed Naminé pressing her lips together out of the corner of his eye, as if she were holding back a laugh.

The Metamorphose was smaller than other art centers in Radiant Garden, and its collection was more eclectic. It provided Vanitas and Naminé plenty of conversation topics without placing the pressure of conversation upon them. They simply entered the galleries together and wandered, sometimes drawn to the same piece, sometimes branching out and finding whatever interested them individually. They were conscientious of time, so concerned about rushing each other along, and then concerned about holding each other up, that they ended up striking a very balanced pace as they worked their way through the exhibits.

It wasn’t until the abstract paintings, however, that Naminé really came to life. Vanitas tried to give her space, but he didn’t know what he was looking at on the canvases, and he ended up drifting behind her like a shadow. He stood a few feet back, alternately studying the paintings and studying her. He wasn’t frustrated by his lack of understanding; like photography, he was used to turning his lens to unexpected or unorthodox places to find the interesting subject matter. Whatever was lost on him in the art itself was found instead on Naminé’s face, as she gazed at each canvas and saw whatever it was that he could not.

Their roles reversed when they finally arrived at the photography exhibit. Vanitas studied the angles, the lighting, the use of negative space, while Naminé stayed silent and observed his observations, until Vanitas turned back to her to discuss what made each piece unique, inviting her to share the view with him. She stepped forward, and together they surveyed the photographs: Vanitas explaining and analyzing, Naminé listening and learning.

By the time they had seen everything they thought was worth seeing, it had been a little over two hours. They found themselves back on the front steps, Naminé squinting in the sunlight while Vanitas took a long breath of fresh air. “Pretty nice out,” he said. “I mean, the exhibits were awesome, but you can’t spend too much time inside on a day like this, you know?”

“Hmm,” Naminé said, sounding like she agreed, but then she added, “I could probably stand to spend more time outdoors.”

“Yeah?” Vanitas said, and after a few seconds, Naminé looked flustered, as if she hadn’t expected to have to elaborate.

“I just get wrapped up in my art,” she said. “Sometimes I don’t realize I’ve spent all day working on a painting until…well, until it’s been all day.”

“Heh, guess I don’t have that problem. Lighting’s key to photography. I can’t afford to lose track of time on a shoot.”

“It sounds very technical,” Naminé said, appreciatively. “I suppose most visual art has some overlap, but photography seems so daunting.”

“It’s not that hard once you get the hang of it. All the buttons and settings become second nature. Besides,” Vanitas added, “all I do is take pictures of things that already exist. I don’t know how you can think of something and paint it, just from memory. I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

Naminé rolled her eyes, though not unkindly, and said, “That’s what everyone who thinks they can’t draw says.” She smiled when he laughed, just to himself, and then went on. “Hey, since it’s so nice out, would you want to…walk around town a bit? If you haven’t done enough walking in the museum already, that is.”

“Yeah, sure thing. I’m used to walking.” Vanitas looked down the road, trying to remember which parts of town would be good for visiting without peering through the eye of the camera. “Where do you want to go? I don’t know if the fountains are open yet, but we could probably check out the gardens.”

“I think I’d rather skip the gardens, if that’s all right,” Naminé said, sounding firm despite her apologetic tone. “My allergies tend to act up this time of year. Maybe we could go downtown? I don’t really like shopping, but the marketplace is a nice area.”

“Works for me.” Vanitas gestured down the sidewalk, and she went ahead of him, both leading and following his lead, though after a few steps they were side by side again.

As they walked, the silence they carried between them grew a little heavier. Vanitas didn’t usually mind silence, but it agitated him when there was another person involved, especially when he assumed she was expecting him to make conversation. Without the museum’s artwork to spark discussion, he found himself scanning the sidewalks and storefronts, trying to find something to talk about. Naminé had her face tilted up to the sky, probably enjoying the sunlight and the peace and quiet, which made it all the more abrupt when Vanitas said, “Hey, do you like ice cream?”

Naminé, jarred from whatever reverie she had been losing herself in, looked at him, and then at the ice cream cart he was pointing to by way of explanation. “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Um, sure?”

“…doesn’t sound like it.” Naminé paused, then shook her head in agreement, an odd contradiction.

“No. I don’t really.”

“Okay, good. Me either. Not sure why I brought it up.”

But he was glad he did as they shared another mutually awkward laugh, a little more of the ice between them breaking away. They continued past the cart, and Vanitas said, “All right, so. You don’t like ice cream, or shopping, or the flower gardens. But you do like painting. And French vanilla lattes. What else do you like?”

She looked like she had to think about her answer before giving it. “I like other types of art,” she said. “Sometimes I just do sketches instead of painting. And I do like some plants. I have a few at my apartment. But they’re mostly plants that don’t require much care. Cacti, succulents, aloe. Things like that.”

“Oh, nice,” Vanitas said. “Good choices. I’ve probably seen some of them back home.”

“Really?” Naminé asked, delight in her voice at this unexpected crossing of paths. “And where’s home?”

“Uh, way up north,” he said, gesturing down the road in what was almost definitely not a northward direction. “Out in the desert, basically.”

“Huh. That’s far,” she said, a bit absently, picturing the distance in her mind’s eye. “How long ago did you leave?”

“‘Bout a year. Little less.”

“And what brought you all the way to Radiant Garden?”

“Better opportunities here, I guess. I’ve been taking courses at RGU for the past semester, kind of in an accelerated program.”

Naminé raised her eyebrows. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t know. I’m not really that into school.”

Whether he was somehow making the conversation awkward or she was just being tactful, she dropped the subject and redirected her focus. “Well, back to your original question. I told you what I like. What do _you_ like, besides photography and caramel?”

He felt himself smile a little at her recollection. “Photography’s kind of my main thing. But I like being outdoors in general. I try to get out as often as I can. Sometimes for the exercise, sometimes scoping out new locations for shoots.”

“What makes a good location?” Naminé wanted to know, and now it was Vanitas’ turn to roll his answer over in his head, having never outright asked himself what he’d been looking for before.

“I guess contrast,” he said. “Not just the colors or the lighting, but the content. That’s what’s cool about this town. It’s all polished on the surface, but if you look a little closer it’s kind of a mess. It’s like the place started off chipped and gross and they just covered it in paint and flowers so people wouldn’t notice. Or just to give them allergies,” he added, and Naminé gave him a quick smile. “But I think that’s what makes something interesting, you know? A photo of a flower is boring. It’s too pretty. But a photo that’s trying to be dark and edgy is too much, too. There has to be some of each. It’s like the coffee,” he said, wondering if he sounded a little stupid yet. “Even if you overload it with sugar, you still want to be able to taste the bitterness.”

“Hmm,” Naminé said, politely curious. “Interesting. I’d love to see some of your work.”

“…really?”

“I mean, I don’t know much about photography, but what you’ve explained so far sounds fascinating.”

“Yeah…sure. I could show you sometime. I actually…I have kind of a show coming up,” he added, encouraged by her enthusiasm. “I mean, it’s not _my_ show. There are tons of people. It’s just a little event they do every summer in the central square, I guess. It’s like a week long. Anyway, I got a spot for an afternoon, just figured it’d be cool…” He wasn’t sure how to make it sound exciting, but Naminé already looked intrigued.

“It sounds wonderful,” she said. “That’s really impressive, Vanitas.”

“It’s not a contest or anything. You just fill out a form, and if there are any available spots, you can show off your stuff. You should apply,” he said, surprising himself but clearly surprising her more. “There’s probably still some slots open, and you definitely have a big enough portfolio, if you spend so much time painting.”

“I don’t know…” Naminé began, running her hand down her braid. “I don’t really have anything organized. All my stuff is just scattered around my apartment.”

“Same here. I don’t have, like, an official collection or anything. I think it’s mostly tourists who stop by anyway. You can put whatever you want up there.”

“What kinds of photos are you showing?”

“I dunno. Stuff from around here, mostly. But some stuff from back home, too. People seem to like the animal-skulls-in-the-desert cliché.” Naminé laughed, and he said, “Seriously. You should give it a shot.”

She hesitated, seeming not just embarrassed or humble, but genuinely uneasy. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ll think about it, maybe.”

Vanitas settled for that, suspecting that she was looking for some kind of escape route. “Well, I’m scheduled for Thursday, I think. I can get you the exact date, if you want. I mean, there’ll be tons of stuff there. I think I saw a live glass-blowing demonstration on the list. I might end up ditching my own photos to go check that out.”

“Sounds interesting. I’ll definitely stop by.”

“Cool,” Vanitas said, understanding that her promise to stop by implied that she had no intention of trying to be part of the show herself. But he left it at that, and they walked on in the sunshine, occasionally pointing out something funny or interesting along the road, but for the most part letting the silence make itself a little more comfortable between them.


	8. If You Would Let Me Finish...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Ienzo, Aeleus, Dilan, Braig, Lea, Isa, and Demyx (a.k.a. the Higanbana crew).

All things considered, the Higanbana crew had almost no trouble adjusting to Ienzo’s continued presence at the club, a fact that made the boy feel both accomplished and oddly annoyed. Aeleus and Dilan greeted him with the same familiar nod they gave to all of their regulars before moving on to the next person in line. At the bar, Ienzo barely opened his mouth before a False Theory slid down the counter. He couldn’t have thanked Braig even if he’d wanted to; the man was moving at warp speed, mixing and pouring and somehow keeping up with the (presumably harmless) flirting so fast that Ienzo felt like he was watching an optical illusion in motion. He ended up taking the drink back to his table, which felt a little too much like being sent to his own room for a time-out.

He later tried to strike up a conversation with Lea, who simply asked what Ienzo was still doing at the club. When Ienzo stated that it was only seven-thirty and he was perfectly within his rights to be there, Lea glanced at his watch, said, “Shit, I could’ve kept sleeping,” thanked Ienzo for pointing that out to him, and disappeared backstage again.

His attempts at winding Isa up were even less fruitful, if only because Isa was already too wound up to be affected by anything Ienzo said.

“Hey, I just thought you’d like to know—”

“I wouldn’t.”

“—Braig tried to serve me alcohol.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Also, your stripper was talking to me earlier, and I think—”

“He insists on being referred to as an ‘erotic dancer.’”

“You mean an ‘exotic’ dancer?”

“He’s not exotic. He’s Irish.”

“…anyway, I think it crossed some employee/patron boundaries.”

“I’ll discuss it with him back home.”

“You guys live together?”

“Yes, Ienzo; we’re married.”

It was Ienzo’s turn to scrutinize Isa’s poker face, trying to figure out if his responses were sarcastic or sincere. No easy task, as Isa hadn’t so much as glanced up from his ledger for the entire exchange. In the end, Ienzo decided on sincere—Isa was far too busy to commit to a lie.

At this point, the only person who seemed willing to tolerate his presence was Demyx. He noticed Ienzo lingering near the stage one evening and invited him over to lend a hand. Not sure how to decline without being rude instead of just aloof, Ienzo spent the next few minutes untangling cables. When Demyx thanked him for the help and introduced himself afterward, Ienzo opted to say, “Nice to meet you,” instead of, “I know.” Demyx continued to plug in various amps and microphones while he asked Ienzo how he was liking the club, what he thought of the music, and if Braig was giving him any trouble yet. It wasn’t quite the conversation Ienzo had been seeking, but it was surprisingly nice. He even enjoyed sitting on the edge of the stage and chatting with Demyx, at least until Dilan cut him off mid-sentence to remind him that patrons weren’t allowed on the stage.

Unforutnately, Demyx wasn’t always around, and without him, Ienzo’s attempts to provoke conversation went either unentertained or actively shot down. It was his arrival on a Monday afternoon—a day when the club didn’t open until the adult shift—that tested Isa’s patience. “We’re _closed_ ,” he said as Ienzo lingered in the entryway, not trying to come further inside, but not leaving, either.

“The door was open,” he replied. “If you don’t want people coming in during off hours, maybe you should have tighter security.”

“It’s Monday,” Isa snapped. “The outside lights are off. There’s no music. There’s nobody here besides us. The club is _clearly_ closed.”

“Well, yes. That’s obvious now that I’m already inside, isn’t it?”

“Look,” Lea said, briefly laying his hand on Isa’s arm as he walked past him and stood between the two. Ienzo was a little embarrassed that it had taken him until now to notice that Lea did, in fact, have a wedding band on his finger. “Someone left the door open—honest mistake. You came inside—honest mistake. But now that you know, it’s time to leave, all right? You can’t just come around here whenever you want.”

“I don’t have a ride.”

“Take the trolley.”

“I don’t have any munny.”

“What did you expect to do here with no munny?” Isa asked.

“I have a tab.”

“Are you planning on paying it?”

“Of course. But Braig told me ‘we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.’”

Isa glared at Braig, who was busy checking the bar’s inventory, but smiling to himself, as if he had forgotten his own quip and was pleased to be reminded of it. “Why aren’t you—I don’t care. Marluxia is coming by at the beginning of next month. I want all tabs settled _in full_ by then. And you,” Isa said, turning back to Ienzo, who was suppressing a smirk of his own as though he and Braig were partners in crime. “Call your ride and tell them you need to be picked up earlier.”

“He won’t be ready until nine.”

“Then find another venue where you can spend your time.”

“I don’t like the other venues,” Ienzo said. “I’m afraid of getting mugged.”

Braig outright laughed at that while Isa pinched the bridge of his nose, and from the corner of the stage, Aeleus said, “You know, I can just give the kid a lift home.”

All four of them looked over in surprise, mostly because they had forgotten Aeleus was sitting there, at his usual post, reading a book and waiting for the team meeting to begin. “You sure?” Lea asked. Aeleus shrugged, dog-earing his book to both Isa’s and Ienzo’s annoyance.

“Yeah, if it solves the problem faster. You guys don’t need me right now anyway, right?”

“Well, no,” Isa said hesitantly, glancing at Ienzo. “How far away do you live?”

“Uh…ten, fifteen minutes?”

“…all right,” Isa said with a sigh. “Aeleus, drive Ienzo home, I suppose. We’ll be ready for the staff meeting by the time you return.”

Aeleus nodded at Isa, and then a little more briskly at Ienzo, silently instructing him to follow as he headed for the door and searched his pockets for his keys. After one more glance at the remaining trio, who were clearly waiting for him to go, Ienzo trotted back out the door to catch up with Aeleus’ massive stride, like a duckling trailing after a grizzly bear.

“Weird kid,” Lea said once they were gone. He raised an eyebrow at Isa and added, “By the way…is that cool? Letting an employee drive him home? That’s not, like, a liability issue, is it?”

“It’s not a company car,” Isa replied. “And we’re not on company time. It’s fine.”

“Eh, I’m with Flamesilocks on this one,” Braig said, finally deigning to join the conversation. “You’re givin’ the kid too much leeway around here. Behavior like that is just a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“ _You_ are a lawsuit waiting to happen,” said Isa. Lea snickered, and Braig shrugged.

“Wouldn’t argue if I could.”

* * *

While Aeleus didn’t think of himself as simple-minded, per se, he did like to keep things fairly straightforward and fact-based. What he observed and experienced with his five senses became the foundation for his view of the world.

So when he led quiet, guarded, sharp-eyed Ienzo through the parking lot, Aeleus braced himself for an uncomfortably long ten- to fifteen-minute drive with a passenger who would not only do nothing to alleviate the silence, but actively reinforce it.

What he realized instead was that the kid simply _would not_ shut up. From the moment they got to Aeleus’s car, Ienzo had something to say—in that instance, it was, “Wow, this has got to be the only Jeep I’ve ever seen in Radiant Garden,” which he said with such a flat affect that Aeleus wasn’t sure if he was being condescending or just stating a fact. Fortunately, after working with Isa for the past few years, Aeleus was used to that kind of tonal ambiguity.

As they made their way through the convoluted route of one-way streets, Ienzo talked and talked. It was as if all the unfinished sentences he had tried to get out over the past week conglomerated into one continuous stream of consciousness. Yet he didn’t talk for the sake of filling the silence. Every word was pure conversational protein. The topics jumped from Higanbana to his schoolwork to town politics to recent scientific studies. Even if Aeleus wanted to respond, he would’ve been hard pressed to find an opportunity. Besides, it was much more fascinating to stay quiet and just let the boy go. Aeleus kept an eye on the clock to see how long it would take for the kid to wind down on his own. Sooner or later, he would have to pause and give Aeleus directions to his house.

Wrong again. Ienzo inserted the directions into his monologues with so little emphasis that Aeleus almost missed them. He nodded along to what the kid was saying, until it registered that what he’d said was, “Take a left after the post office,” and Aeleus had to make a much sharper turn than he intended, causing Ienzo to once again smoothly change the topic and criticize Aeleus’s driving.

Aeleus only managed to work his way into the “conversation” when Ienzo mentioned that he was going into his senior year of high school. He asked if the boy would be attending Radiant Garden University once he graduated, to which Ienzo replied that it was definitely under consideration, but he’d have to wait and see how he fared next semester. Aeleus had a small list of follow-up questions he wanted to ask. What was Ienzo interested in studying? Would he live on campus or commute? And if it was the latter, would he finally consider carrying change for the trolley, or would he expect Aeleus to continue to drop whatever he was doing and give him rides in his Jeep?

Aeleus wished he could’ve said that last one aloud. It was rare that he came up with a joke he felt was worth sharing, and even rarer that he had an audience who might appreciate it. But he held back, just in case too many questions in a row would make Ienzo feel pressured and draw back into his shell of silence.

When they finally pulled onto his street, Ienzo had returned to the topic of Higanbana. He said someone should tell Isa that the hanging plants on the walls must be in violation of some fire code or another, being so close to the ceiling and having such long tendrils. Aeleus considered interrupting the kid to inform him that the plants were Marluxia’s idea (and Aeleus’s responsibility, given that he was the only one tall enough to water them without a stepladder), but Ienzo cut himself off and said, “Oh, this is me,” pointing at a house just as they drove past it. Aeleus hit the brakes, instinctively reaching out to keep Ienzo from lurching forward, and carefully backed up along the curb.

While Ienzo gathered his things, which had spilled out of his bag at the abrupt stop, Aeleus took a closer look at the house. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it was an incredibly normal-looking home. Not too big, not too small, two stories high. The yard was plain but well-maintained, enclosed by an almost hilariously clichéd white picket fence.

“Is anyone home?” Aeleus asked, inspecting the windows for signs of life.

“No,” Ienzo said, zipping up his bag. “My father works late. He was the one who was going to pick me up.”

“Oh. He doesn’t mind you being at the club, then?”

Ienzo gave him a pointed look. “I wait for him at the library. That’s where he picks me up from my ‘book club.’”

“Ah,” Aeleus said. “Well, will you be okay staying home alone until he gets back?”

Ienzo stared. “I’m in high school.”

Aeleus shrugged. “All right.”

“I’m turning _eighteen_ this year, Aeleus.”

“Yeah, all right. I got it.”

They sat for a moment, finally reaching that awkward silence Aeleus had been prepared for since the beginning, though he wasn’t sure which one of them had caused it. Ienzo scratched the side of his head, mussing his already messy hair. “All right, well. Thanks.” He tried the door handle a few times before realizing he needed to manually pop the lock, just as Aeleus was raising his hand to point it out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure, anytime,” Aeleus said, and immediately wanted to add, “I mean, _not_ anytime, of course,” but was too polite to correct himself. Ienzo slung his backpack over his shoulder and shut the door, giving Aeleus a brief wave as he turned toward the house. Aeleus waited to make sure he got inside safely, and Ienzo unlocked the door and stepped through it without a second glance. Aeleus sighed, put his car in gear, and headed back to work, where he would at least get paid to be disregarded.

* * *

Neither Dilan nor Aeleus were surprised to see Ienzo the following Monday. But with Isa and Lea taking the afternoon off for a belated Mother’s Day dinner with Lea’s mom, no one was sure how strictly to enforce protocol. Braig was in the back, presumably stashed away in some hiding place to catch up on his sleep. Dilan assumed that the responsibility of throwing the kid out would fall to him, but Ienzo simply gave him a courteous nod and walked over to the bar, where Aeleus was sitting.

“Have you seen—” Ienzo began, stopping when Aeleus produced an ornate fountain pen from his pocket. Ienzo paused, then accepted it with a soft, “Thank you.”

“What’s this about?” Dilan asked. Aeleus gestured to the pen as Ienzo put it away.

“It fell out of his bag when I gave him a ride home last week. Must’ve rolled under the seat. It’s a nice pen,” he added, inviting Ienzo into the conversation when they should have been telling him to vacate the premises. “Where’d you get it, if you don’t mind my asking? Doesn’t look like a typical school supply.”

“It was a gift,” Ienzo said. “From my grandfather.” Aeleus nodded. There was no particular fondness or sentimentality in Ienzo’s answer, but the intricate details of the pen spoke volumes, as did Ienzo’s quiet but unmistakable relief to have it back in his possession.

“Well,” Dilan said, “I suppose you’ll be heading out now. You remember we’re closed until nine o’ clock on Mondays.”

“I remember,” Ienzo said. He and Dilan looked at each other for a few seconds. And then Dilan looked at Aeleus. The latter shrugged. And Dilan looked at Ienzo again.

And when Isa and Lea arrived at 8:30, Ienzo and the bouncers were sitting together at a table near the bar. Braig and Demyx were at the counter, and all five of them chatted with each other across the floor. They fell silent when they saw Isa, waiting to see what his verdict would be. Lea looked just as curious, standing behind Isa with a small box of leftovers and studying the back of his head.

Isa took in the scene before him, gazing impassively at each employee before finally stopping at Ienzo. Ienzo returned the look with a blank, open stare of his own.

Maybe it was the neutrality in the boy’s eyes—the total lack of a challenge, the implied willingness to abide by whatever Isa’s decision was—that led Isa to say, “…just make sure you’re gone by 8:50.” And off he went to the back of the club, though not before he had the pleasure of hearing Ienzo snark at Braig, “I think he was talking to you.”


	9. Just Doing What My Heart Tells Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Terra, Aqua, and a familiar luckless teenager.

Terra tended to like keeping his feet on the ground, but today, he was walking on air. He was one exam away from being done with the semester, and then he had about two and a half weeks of free time before his internship began. And while Ven had worried him a little on his first day at the apartment, by the end of the week, he was right at home. He no longer tiptoed his way through daily life as though everything might be snatched away from him if he made a wrong move. He helped himself to the fridge, he found shows he liked to watch in the evenings, and he had his own save files on their video games.

Terra stood by his earlier statement. It all just felt right.

And another thing that felt right today was indulging an overpriced, unhealthy, but fully earned snack. He wouldn’t have access to the campus vending machines once summer began, and apparently they were the only location in a forty-mile radius that sold Confetti Candy. As he rounded the corner, fishing for spare change in one of his many pockets, he saw someone already at the machine.

The young customer—assailant, more like—was repeatedly jamming the buttons, clearly more set on causing the machine some kind of injury than in getting any real results. When that didn’t work, he swore under his breath and gave it a kick as he turned to leave. He caught sight of Terra, who had paused with a fistful of change, and for a second the young man looked startled, or embarrassed. Maybe a little of both. He raked his hand through his hair and then gestured to the machine.

“Don’t waste your munny. Fuckin’ thing’s busted.”

“Huh. Before or after you kicked it?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the kid insisted, sounding more frustrated with himself than with Terra. “All I did was press the button, and it ate my munny. It’s bullshit.”

Terra gave him an easy smile and held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m just messing with you. C’mere.” He stepped up to the vending machine, and the kid shuffled back, letting him take over. His stance was a little guarded, a little slant-shouldered, and Terra kept his tone light, feeling like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

“These things can be finicky,” he explained, making sure none of the buttons were stuck. “Took me a few years to get the hang of them. Maintenance always keeps them fully stocked, but I don’t think they ever actually test them. Go figure that one.”

The kid snorted. “I don’t even care about the food at this point. I’d settle for just getting my munny back.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Terra gave the coin return lever a pull and a twist, and down dropped the food and the refund. He retrieved both from the machine, and the kid carefully took them from him, pocketing the food and holding the munny in his palm. “Uh, is there a way to re-enter this, or…?”

Terra shook his head dismissively. “No need. Consider it payback for having your time wasted by this thing.”

The kid still hesitated, glancing between Terra and the vending machine, but eventually he held up the hand with the munny in it and nodded to indicate his gratitude. Terra nodded back, and the kid slunk off, shoving both hands in his pockets along with the cash. Terra smiled and started putting his own munny in the machine, a little more gently than usual. _Still a great day_ , he thought. _Helping a stranger. That’s gotta be some good karma or something._

“ _Terra_.”

He looked up as his Confetti Candy dropped into the tray, and he saw Aqua walking toward him, giving him what he could only describe as the universal “wtf look.”

“Hey?” he said, frowning as he retrieved his snack. She returned his greeting by gesturing to him, then to the vending machine, then down the path the boy had taken, though he was already well out of sight. Terra held his arms out at his sides and shook his head in confusion, and Aqua returned the gesture much more judgmentally. “Okay, I don’t know what that means,” he said as he dropped his arms. “What?”

“ _That was him_.”

“What was him? Who?” Terra jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That kid?”

“Terra, that was _Vanitas_. The guy who’s been bullying Ven. _That was him_.”

Terra froze, the Confetti Candy in his hand somehow feeling like a symbol of betrayal. “Wait. No. _Him_?” he asked, looking down the path again. “He just seemed like…I dunno. Like a regular kid, I guess. A little angry, for sure, but not mean or anything.”

“Well, duh. Not when you’re buying him candy bars. Jesus, Terra.” Aqua leaned against the vending machine. “You know what a hard time he’s given Ven.”

“Yeah, I’m just saying. I didn’t realize it was him.”

“Ven’s described him to us so many times. He has the same eyes as Professor Xehanort. Honestly, Terra. What were you thinking?”

“I dunno. I saw a kid having a hard time, so I figured I’d help. Just, you know…following my heart?”

Aqua stared. Terra shrugged. Aqua kept staring. “Terra,” she said, “you’re talking about a vending machine. This isn’t a ‘follow your heart’ situation. It’s not exactly life or death.”

“Okay, well, stop acting like it, then,” Terra said. “Helping the guy buy a snack isn’t going to make things any worse for Ven. I know you’re just trying to look out for him,” he went on, easing up. “I am, too. But just…scale it back a little, all right?”

Aqua took a deep breath and forced herself to loosen her shoulders. “I know,” she said, suddenly looking very tired. “I know. It’s just…we’re the only ones he’s got. We have to have his back, you know? One hundred percent.”

“We do,” Terra said. “Honestly, I haven’t even heard Ven complain about Vanitas in a while. Not since his first few days with us. Things have been going fine for him lately. I think finals week is just stressing us out.” Aqua smiled in agreement, and Terra reached into his pocket for more munny. “Go on, have a Shield Cookie. My treat.”

Aqua accepted his offer readily and fed the munny into the machine. And when it stalled, she muttered under her breath, hitting the heel of her palm against the screen and jabbing the button until Terra, once again, calmly stepped in to work his magic.


	10. That's No Way To Greet A Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: the Higanbana crew, including Ienzo, plus a very special guest star.

For the fourth time that afternoon, Isa took center stage, shielded his eyes with one hand, and raised the other above his head. Three spotlights caught him in their crossfire. “Well?” he asked. “Any better?”

Aeleus furrowed his strong brow, his frown deepening as he studied Isa from behind the bar. “I guess? To be honest, I never really saw a problem with the lights to begin with. They’re supposed to be bright, aren’t they?”

“Braig said there was a glare,” Isa replied, squinting even below the shade of his hand. “He claims it’s distracting him while he works. If we just dim the leftmost light, it should take the strain off his eye without affecting the view from the floor.”

“Whose left?” Dilan asked, his hand poised above the light switches.

“Stage left.” Dilan’s hand hovered, still waiting. “… _my_ left,” Isa clarified. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to work in the entertainment district of this town for so many years without learning basic theater terminology.”

Dilan muttered something as he adjusted the lights, and Isa didn’t bother ordering him to repeat himself. They’d been working on this little project for what felt like hours now, and according to Aeleus, it was all for naught. Isa waited until Dilan finished making his adjustments, then said, “Now?”

“Looks good,” Dilan replied, hardly paying attention anymore. Isa turned to the bar for a second opinion.

Aeleus was desperately trying to see some sort of improvement, if only to prove that their afternoon hadn’t been an exercise in futility—a least favorite exercise for all three of them. “Looks fine from here,” he said. “But then, it did from the start. Have we considered that the glare might just be from Lea? No offense or anything, but the guy needs to get more sun.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Isa said, lowering his hand and closing his eyes to compensate. “Dilan, kill the lights. Keep the settings. We’ll run them by Braig when he gets back from unloading supplies.” The stage lights shut off with a heavy snap, and he opened his eyes again, his vision speckling. Aeleus cracked his neck, and Dilan barely stifled a yawn. “You’re both welcome to lend him a hand if you’re looking for a change of pace.”

Isa heard how passive aggressive the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth, but the bouncers took him up on his offer immediately, shaking themselves loose as they rose to their feet, all too eager to get outdoors after nearly an hour of staring at artificial lighting. Aeleus brought a cup of water to Isa before they left, which Isa accepted with gratitude and slight surprise.

Once the door to the alley swung shut behind them, Isa pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, soothing the itchy warmth with the coolness of his hands. He hadn’t realized how harsh the stage lights must be on Lea every night. Maybe Demyx could look into some color tinting to take the edge off, as long as it didn’t clash with the rest of Marluxia’s oh-so carefully selected interior design.

To kill some time, and to cleanse his palate of the pointlessness of the past hour, Isa did a slow lap around the stage, making sure everything was in order. He picked up and pocketed a few pieces of trash, trying to ignore his hair as it clung to the thin film of sweat on the nape of his neck. He used the toe of his shoe to test a nail that had never actually come loose, but had always looked like it might. As usual, it held fast in the floorboard.

When he finished his rounds, he went to the back wall to double-check the cables and make sure none were out of place. He sighed when he found a veritable French braid of wires, both annoyed at the extra work and glad to have something to keep himself busy. He got down on one knee after ensuring that the stage was dust-free and started untangling. Like most tasks, it took longer than expected, as all five cables were plain black and the same width. But the repetitiveness of the job was calming, and he would have quantifiable results to show for it. Always a bonus in a place as chaotic as this.

He only had one pair of cables left to unknot when a lilting voice from the front of the stage said, “Twenty bucks for the vest.”

Isa frowned at the entanglement in his hands. “I told you, I’m not roleplaying with you, Lea,” he said, wondering how two cables could possibly be more difficult to separate than five, and trying not to think about how tempting the idea of ditching a layer actually was. The lights had raised the temperature of the entire stage by several degrees, and the stickiness on the back of his neck wasn’t letting up. He would have considered putting his hair in a low ponytail if it weren’t for the vivid mental image he had of Braig walking through the door and exclaiming in delight, “Hey, twinsies!”

Isa dropped the cables back to where they were before. _As long as they’re plugged in correctly_ , he supposed, rising to his feet and rubbing his knee with a wince.

“C’mon,” Lea said, leaning one elbow on the stage. “Little role reversal to shake things up? Could be fun.”

At this, Isa finally turned to face him, one eyebrow slightly raised in an expression that was somehow both skeptical and apathetic. It was an imperious look, and it only made Lea’s grin broader. “You want to trade places? Be my guest,” Isa said, returning to center stage. “Five minutes of my job and you’ll be burning this club to the ground.”

“I’d fire Braig, though.”

Isa paused. “We’ll put a pin in that for now,” he said. “Did you get them?”

Lea brought his hand out from behind his back, whipping a brown paper bag in the air only to catch it again. “Tada,” he said flatly. “Two thousand sword-shaped toothpicks in assorted colors. Felt like an absolute tool buying these, just so you know.”

“Well, that’s how I feel including them in the budget,” Isa said as he walked over and took the bag from Lea. He opened it to ensure the contents were correct, which Lea knew better than to take personally. “They’re a popular item, for whatever reason.”

“I’m surprised you allow them in here. They’re basically miniature weapons.” When Isa picked up one of the boxes and squinted at the back of it, Lea said, “What, you gonna count ‘em?”

“I can’t read this.”

“…god, are you finally having a stroke?”

“The lights,” Isa said, still staring at the box but gesturing vaguely at the ceiling. “I’ve had them on me for the past—” He glanced at his wrist out of pure reflex, then immediately rolled his eyes. “If I could read my watch, I would tell you. Forty-five minutes?”

“Shit, _I_ don’t even spend that much time up there. You work too hard. No one’s gonna care if it’s perfect.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll care if it isn’t,” Isa replied, challenging Lea’s “get it done” mentality with his own “get it right” one. He looked up as the back door opened and Dilan reentered the club, carrying the first round of supplies to the bar. After exchanging a brief nod with him, Isa turned back to Lea. “And to address your previous point: if I banned everything in this place that could be weaponized, there’d be nothing left.”

“True enough,” Lea said with a laugh. “Still, though. I wouldn’t risk ordering a drink with one of these toothpicks in it. Bet they could take an eye out.” His face lit up. “Oh, man. Add that to the list. Don’t let me forget.”

“What list?” Dilan asked, ripping open a box of napkins with ease.

“We’ve got a running list of possible ways Braig lost his eye,” Lea said. “He won’t tell us how it happened, so we have kind of a bet going, just in case he ever lets it slip.”

“That’s assuming he’d be telling the truth,” Dilan said.

“Right.” Lea paused. “You know…it sounds insensitive when I say it out loud.” He looked almost guilty, at least until the front door swung open and Demyx wandered inside. Lea whistled, and Demyx raised his eyebrows and removed an earbud.

“Yeah?”

Lea held up one of the boxes of toothpicks. “Stabbed in the eye?”

“Oh, shit! How have we never thought of that before? Write that down.”

“ _All right_ ,” Isa said, more exasperated than commanding, even from his vantage point on the stage. All three of his coworkers turned to him, awaiting his orders, but as he looked at them and thought about all the things they had left to do that evening, something inside him deflated. Instead of giving them their next tasks like he’d intended, he simply said, “It’s time for a break. Thirty minutes. Dilan, make sure Aeleus knows.”

If they were surprised, they hid it well. Dilan and Demyx headed for the back before Isa could change his mind, while Lea lingered by the stage. “Thirty-minute break?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Someone’s feeling generous.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Isa said, finally lifting the heavy curtain of hair off his neck and shaking it to simulate a breeze. “I don’t know how you survive under those lights. Why didn’t you tell me how hot they were? We could’ve adjusted them sooner.”

“To be fair, I usually have fewer layers on. Plus, the eyeliner’s not just for looks, you know. Doubles as protection from the glare.”

“…well, I’ll admit that never occurred to me before. Sounds like you’ve got it under control.”

“Yeah, turns out I’m the brains and you’re the looks after all.”

“ _There’s_ your role reversal,” Isa said without missing a beat, and Lea indulged him with a small smile.

“Well,” he said, assuming a gallant pose as he gestured to the back door. “Dare I get my hopes up that you’ll be joining us?”

Isa was actually about to say yes when the phone rang at his usual post by the front door. Lea jumped, and Isa brought his hands halfway to his temples, letting them hang for a moment before dropping them again and sighing in resignation. “I have to get it.”

Lea gave him a soft look, disapproving but understanding. He offered his hand to help Isa down from the stage, which the latter accepted gratefully. With a quick pat on the shoulder, he sent Lea to the break room, promising to meet him there in a few minutes. When Isa reached the phone, he placed his hand on the receiver and let it ring one more time, trying to muster up some energy and tap into his customer service voice, not that it had ever kept him or Lea (or Demyx) from getting fired before. After a deep but quick breath, he picked up the phone.

“Higanbana, this is—”

“What time do you open?”

Isa hesitated, debating whether it would be more professional to answer the question or finish the standard greeting first. “On Mondays, we open at 9,” he decided to say. “The club remains open until 3 in the morning.”

“You keep teenagers there until _3 a.m._?”

Isa wasn’t sure where to begin with the mistakes in that sentence. He wanted to say, “We don’t _keep_ anyone _anywhere_ ,” but instead went with, “Minors are strictly prohibited after 9 p.m. That is and always has been our policy, with the exception of certain advertised theme nights, which are open to patrons age thirteen and—”

A soft click informed Isa that the caller was even more tired of listening than he was of talking. He held the receiver out and stared at it as if it were somehow responsible for the conversation. After a moment, he returned the phone to its cradle and stalked across the empty floor to the back of the club, faintly annoyed by the caller’s rudeness, but even more annoyed that he had delayed his break by two minutes for questions that would have been exceedingly easy to Google.

* * *

The crowd was thin at the start of the evening, which left Isa comfortably stationed by the door, trying to ignore what was shaping up to be a splitting headache. When he needed a break, he drifted around the club, assessing the lounge area, the tables, and, against his better judgment, the bar. It seemed Braig was in need of some mental stimulation as well, with an unusual lack of drink orders to fill. Isa had no sooner arrived than he found a dry rag whipped inches from his face. He hardly blinked.

“Misuse of company property,” was all he said to Braig, whose face was equal parts disappointed and impressed.

“Gonna get you one of these days,” he said, slinging the rag back over his shoulder while Isa sat on one of the stools, crossing his legs and taking a brief rest. On certain nights, when the general atmosphere was off, there was a silent agreement among the Higanbana staff, like a truce. Braig was hardly one to meet them halfway, even at his most agreeable, but when Isa took a small pack of ibuprofen from his pocket and cracked it open, Braig was ready with a glass of water. Isa sipped it with unspoken gratitude, and as he lowered the glass, he saw Lea approaching, easily weaving his way through the sparse crowd. The sight was almost enough to make Isa smile.

Instead he said, “Is there a problem?”

“Maybe,” Lea said, looking at Braig. “You’re not playing Make ‘em Flinch again, are you?”

Braig grinned, a cat with a mouthful of canary. The so-called game was a favorite pastime of his, and it involved anything from flicking cleaning rags at his coworkers’ faces to exclaiming, “Hey, think fast!” and pretending to lob a beer bottle across the floor. Aeleus and Lea were regular flinchers. Demyx was hilariously easy; he tended to be jumpy by default, and Braig had conditioned him with so many throwing motions and almost-dropped trays that Demyx would sometimes flinch preemptively if he suspected another round of the game was imminent. Even Dilan wasn’t immune, though his biggest reaction so far had been to take a quick step back, shut his eyes, and say, “ _Damn_ it, Braig.”

But it was Isa who remained the reigning king. Despite numerous and increasingly creative attempts, Braig had never managed to provoke him into responding with anything more than a calm blink.

“It’s ‘Make ‘im Flinch’ now,” Braig replied. “Your man’s the only one I haven’t gotten yet.”

“Yeah,” Lea said. “He won.”

“No, _you_ interfered,” Braig shot back while Isa continued to sip his water, tuning them both out. “Not a fair victory by any stretch. I’ll admit, though,” he said to Isa. “Always thought that whole stoic demeanor was a front, and all it’d take was a well-timed surprise to get you to crack. But you’re made of stone, man. A living statue. Heh, an ‘Isa sculpture,’ if you will.”

“I won’t,” Isa replied, bringing a quick, light smile to Lea’s face before he turned back to Braig.

“Seriously, dude. No one likes a sore loser. Drop it.”

Braig waved his hand dismissively, but he returned to cleaning the bar without protest. Before Lea left, he glanced at Isa, who gave him a small nod of approval. He watched Lea make his way to the back again and wondered if maybe they _were_ switching roles after all: Isa sitting idly at the bar, shirking his duties, while Lea arrived on the scene to give his coworkers stern lectures on their conduct in the workplace. He finished his water and headed back to the entrance, thinking it might be nice to swap places, at least on an evening when Lea wasn’t performing.

The night wore on, as it so often did. The crowd hit its stride, Braig found himself too busy with drink orders to bother his coworkers, and Lea helped Demyx set up his music equipment on the stage. Isa’s headache abated, and he fell into his usual rhythm of greeting patrons and scanning the floor, making occasional eye contact with Dilan and Aeleus to ensure nothing was going wrong.

It was such a familiar routine that he was almost lulled by it, and when the phone rang, he picked it up without expecting anything beyond the norm. Placing one finger against his ear to stifle the clamor of the club, he said, “Higanbana, this is—”

“Listen to me, I _know_ my son is there,” the caller said in that same acetic voice as earlier. He spoke as if he were concluding an argument that Isa wasn’t aware they’d been having. “You send him home _now_ , or there _will_ be trouble, do you _hear_ me?”

Isa held the phone a few inches from his ear, dropping his free hand back to his side. Hearing the man was the one thing he had no problem with. Understanding him, however…

“We don’t escort patrons out of the establishment without due cause,” Isa replied, finding it easier to respond with incongruent professionalism than to draw attention to how utterly insane the caller sounded. Maybe enforcing a sense of normalcy would bleed through the phone lines and calm the man down a bit. “If there’s an urgent—”

“What kind of place are you _running_ , anyway? Keeping minors after _dark_ , on a _school night_?”

Isa risked bringing the phone back to his ear. “You called earlier, correct? As I stated previously, minors are prohibited after nine p.m. Our security staff are well-trained and make no exceptions. We have a strict policy and card our patrons very—”

Isa wasn’t sure why he continued to talk. By the word “previously,” the caller was ranting again, a litany of insults and accusations against Isa, the staff, the club, and nightlife in general, it seemed. Isa truly had no response except to let his face go even more blank than it already was. His gaze unfocused, though he was aware that he was looking in the direction of the stage, because he saw Lea pause in the middle of transporting sound equipment. He watched Isa for a few seconds before crossing the stage and leaning down to give Aeleus’ shoulder a light whack with the back of his hand. He gestured to Isa, and the two watched him from across the room with confusion and mild concern.

Isa continued to look in their direction without looking as the rant streamed forth from the telephone like a flood of biblical proportions. Aeleus made a questioning motion, a slight lurch forward as if asking whether he should provide backup, though he wasn’t sure what sort of security measures he could enact over the phone. Isa held up one finger while the man ranted on, then beckoned Aeleus over.

The bouncer was there in no time—not fast, but able to part the crowd easily with his sheer size. He waited for instructions or an explanation, but Isa simply held the phone out for both of them to listen to. Aeleus paused, then bent down until he was level with the earpiece, the tallest and the shortest of the Higanbana staff leaning their heads in together to assess the situation.

It defied assessment. The two of them listened for thirty seconds while the man continued to pitch an almighty fit. Aeleus’ eyes glazed into the same thousand-yard stare as Isa’s; it seemed to be the only response to such an unprecedented verbal assault. When Aeleus glanced at Isa for some sort of guidance, Isa returned his look with something akin to surreal humor, like this had gone on for so long that it was now an inside joke shared between the two—or three—of them.

“Who…?” Aeleus said, and Isa slowly shook his head, having no answers. He brought the phone back to his ear just in time to hear the man say, “—have to come and get him myself.”

Isa attempted a, “Sir?” But the caller, apparently wanting to end round two on a more ominous note, had already hung up. Again.

Somehow, that was what Isa had the most trouble coping with. Accusations of degeneracy, he could handle. He’d encountered far worse over the course of his life. But there was no call for hanging up on someone without giving them a chance to speak, let alone say good-bye. Just supremely rude.

With a sigh that was starting to qualify as a catchphrase, Isa hung up as well, and Aeleus finally finished asking, “Who _was_ _�_ that?”

“I truly have no idea. He said he was calling about his son. Wanted us to ‘return’ him.”

“…did you explain that we don’t keep hostages here?” Aeleus asked, scanning the floor and trying to determine which young man was the unfortunate son.

“I would have, if he had stopped to take a breath.”

“Well,” Aeleus said, in the tone of someone trying to think of a positive spin. “We used to deal with calls like that a lot more often, back in the day. Worse than that, actually. I don’t know if you remember how it was back then, you guys were pretty young—”

“I remember.”

“Right.” Aeleus scratched the back of his head and shrugged. “Point is, calls like that aren’t typical these days. The guy was probably just overreacting.”

“Well, let’s hope so. Because he sounded like he was on his way here.”

“Ah, geez. Want me to put this place on lockdown? Board up the windows? Barricade the door?”

“Every day of my life,” Isa said, almost laughing. “I think we’ll be fine. Dilan’s managing the door; he’ll be able to handle it. Just return to the stage for now. I’ll let you know if we need backup.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll know.” Isa gave him a small smile, then nodded toward the stage, sending him on his way and wondering, in spite of his own reassurances, if two bouncers were really enough for a place like this.

* * *

As it turned out, the number of bouncers was irrelevant if they simply let potential threats walk straight through the door. When Isa heard that shrill and by now familiar voice ricocheting through the club, he closed his eyes and thanked whatever had drawn him away from his post by the door. His only advantage in this situation was that the caller (or patron, now, he supposed) would have no idea who the manager was.

Not that it mattered. He sounded determined to overturn the entire establishment if that was what it took to get results. As Isa listened to the man’s demands for his son, his gaze swept over the crowd. There weren’t many people at Higanbana tonight—few enough that Isa picked them out by individual faces rather than seeing them as one conglomerate mass on the dance floor.

He’d had his problems with their patrons in the past and knew he would continue to have problems with them in the future. They were young, entitled, and needed frequent reminders about boundaries. They were the reason Isa carried packets of ibuprofen with him at all times. They shouted crass and borderline idiotic things at his husband. And their collective infatuation with the bartender made Isa question the judgment of every single person who walked through the door.

But a sea of heads turned toward the entrance—some in confusion, some in amusement, and some in alarm, fearing that the angry voice was calling to them—and Isa bristled. Their clientele came here not just for mindless fun, but for a sense of safety. Many of them came here _specifically_ to be obnoxious and loud and entitled, and for all the headaches they caused Isa, he would be damned if some interloper tried to ruin it.

He shored up his mental fortitude and looked out at the floor, locating the source of the disturbance immediately. He didn’t realize he’d conjured up such a distinct mental image of the man until he laid eyes on him and felt expectation clash with reality. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been quite so tall, or had hair even longer than his own. Nor had it been wearing, of all things, a full-length white lab coat.

The man was still raving, almost to himself, but his eyes were searching the crowd, either for his son or for an employee to accost. With a long exhale, Isa accepted that that employee would have to be him.

And maybe Braig, if he played his cards right.

“Excuse me,” Isa said as he stepped forward, foregoing the usual “sir.” Aeleus was close behind him, lending his protection without being asked. “May I help you with something?”

“I am _looking_ for my _son_ ,” the man said, as though Isa had been genuinely offering to help out of the goodness of his heart instead of politely asking the man to take a goddamn chill pill and stop scaring his patrons. He was still scanning the floor with manic eyes, getting a few odd looks in return. Isa was both relieved and a little insulted that the man hadn’t so much as glanced at him yet.

“Is there a problem?” Isa tried. He wasn’t supposed to ask people that; it implied that problems were to be expected, and it put the thought in customers’ heads that they should be looking for things to complain about. Isa remembered this from his managerial training with Marluxia. It was a fair point, he had to admit, seeing how Marluxia often did enough nitpicking for the staff and the customers combined.

“Is there a _problem_?” the man repeated, finally turning to face Isa now that he’d been asked a question so monumentally stupid it was impossible to ignore. Isa wasn’t particularly short, nor was this man particularly big; tall, certainly, but with the frame and posture of someone who spent most of his time indoors, possibly at a computer desk. But there was such a vibrant energy bubbling in him, shining out through his almost unnaturally green eyes, that Isa felt a little wary, and was glad to have Aeleus at his back to balance things out.

“If there’s some kind of emergency, we can call—”

“The _emergency_ ,” the man interrupted, predictably, “is that my son is _here_. How many times must I repeat myself before you lot _do_ something about this? I found your business card, I looked you up, I _know_ he comes here. And honestly, letting a high school boy into a _strip club_? It’s _unconscionable_. You’re lucky I haven’t called the authorities already.”

“Higanbana isn’t a strip club,” Isa said, not sure why _that_ was what he apparently thought was the most important point to address. He wasn’t lying, though. Even if Lea were the sole source of entertainment, by his own terminology, that would make Higanbana an erotic dance club, not a strip club. A little pedantic, maybe, but true.

In hindsight, calling attention to the phrase “strip club,” either to confirm or deny its accuracy, was probably not Isa’s best move. The man launched into another tirade, or perhaps he was picking up exactly where his previous one had left off. Maybe his entire life was one continuous tirade, and they were only witnessing one small portion of it, Isa mused, mildly concerned at how easily he was detaching from the situation as soon as the man started to rant.

Still, while he condemned the club, the lack of professionalism from the staff, and the questionable morals of letting teenagers into an establishment with adult entertainment, he hadn’t touched on what Isa felt was the obvious target. Maybe he wasn’t a homophobe after all. Maybe he just an enemy of fun in general. He had to have been a prude across the board, Isa thought. He’d worn a lab coat to a nightclub, for heaven’s sake.

“—and to think that _any_ business, respectable or otherwise, would run itself in such a ramshackle way, as to not even be able to keep track of its own clientele, simply _confounds_ the mind and boggles the sensibilities of _anyone_ with even an _ounce_ —”

“If you’d like,” Isa began, sincerely doubting that there was anything on the face of the planet that this man liked, “I can pause the music and page him over the intercom. What’s your son’s name?” Isa didn’t want to turn a patron over to an agitated and judgmental father, but there wasn’t much else he could do if the kid really was a minor.

The man scowled, looking like he had a lot more to say on this issue before it was resolved, but he seemed to be tiring himself out. Relenting as minimally as he could, he said, “Ienzo.”

Isa froze. Behind him, Aeleus made a sound like an involuntary laugh that he caught in his throat just before it escaped. Even Braig paused, his dishrag jammed inside a half-dry glass as he stared.

“Well?” the man said, not sure which direction the intercom controls were in, but gesturing vaguely at Isa to go to them. Isa continued to stare.

It was Aeleus who found his voice first, and all he did with it was dumbly repeat, “ _Ienzo_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, and Isa shook off his surprise and looked him over again, revising his initial impression of the man. The sharp eyes, the unsettling presence, the lab coat. But also the nonstop chatter, the frenetic energy, the buzz of paranoia emanating from him. _This answers so many questions_ , Isa thought, _and raises so many more_.

“I can page him,” he offered, “but I assure you, it will be a waste of time. I’ve informed you that minors aren’t allowed past nine o’ clock.”

“He hasn’t even been here at all tonight,” Aeleus added.

“Oh, so he _is_ here most nights, then?” the father snapped.

“Have you tried calling him?” Aeleus asked, ever the problem-solver. But at this suggestion, the man looked up, regarding Aeleus as if he’d only just arrived. Aeleus remembered Ienzo giving him that same look when he and Isa confronted him all those weeks ago, though it was more deliberately condescending when he’d done it. The way this man was looking at him, in judgmental confusion, Aeleus was convinced that he truly hadn’t registered his existence until just now.

“ _Yes_ , I tried calling him,” he said, his voice secreting venom. “Of _course_ I tried calling him. I called him just before I came inside. What kind of father do you think _wouldn’t_ try calling his son?” His eyes narrowed as Aeleus reached into his pocket and produced his own phone. “What on _earth_ are you doing?” he asked, more of a condemnation than a genuine question. Aeleus hit the call button, held the phone to his ear, and waited two rings before he got an answer.

“Yes…? Why are—”

“Ienzo, where are you right now?”

“ _…what_?” Ienzo responded, laughing. His father stuck his hand out for the phone, and Aeleus almost handed it over before remembering that it was _his_ cell phone, and this man was not his boss, and he didn’t have to obey him just because he had stormed through the door in a lab coat. Isa, like Aeleus, was reminded of their first meeting with Ienzo, when they had engaged in a brief battle of wills. But while Ienzo had been a hidden pistol, his father gave off the impression of a loose cannon. _How is this going to end?_ Isa thought. _Would he really try to sue us? Is this how we finally get shut down?_ He risked a glance at Lea, who was watching closely, and probably had been since the man arrived, but had yet to come down from the stage, refusing to surrender the tactical advantage of higher ground. _Coward_.

“Ienzo, seriously. Where are you?”

“The library.”

Aeleus plugged his ear with one finger and said, “ _What_?”

“I _said_ : I’m at the library.”

“Is this a prank or something?” Aeleus asked, and Ienzo’s father scoffed and muttered, “Probably,” under his breath.

“No. Why?”

“The library is where you say you are when you’re _here_. Where are you, really?”

“Aeleus, _I’m at the library_. Why are you even calling me right now?”

“You need to come to the club as soon as possible.”

“It’s after nine.”

“Ienzo, your father is here looking for you.”

There was a very long pause. Ienzo’s father waited expectantly. Isa stood beside Aeleus, realizing that he had been subtly inching closer to him over the past several minutes. Braig had finished drying the glass and was now watching the event unfold with interest and barely restrained glee.

Finally, Ienzo said, “…all right, _this_ is a prank.”

“There’s nothing funny about this,” Aeleus said, which neither Braig nor Isa fully agreed with. “He’s tall, maybe six feet?”

“Six-foot-one,” the man corrected, to Aeleus’ indifference.

“Long hair?” he went on. “Hysterical demeanor? Lab coat?”

“Oh, holy shit. Yeah. Be there in five.”

Aeleus snapped his phone shut and put it away. Conversing with Ienzo seemed to help him find his center again; he regarded the man, who was absolutely livid, in a calm and factual manner. “He’s on his way.”

“ _Incredibly_ rude, not to mention _suspect_.” Aeleus and Isa said nothing, knowing he could be referring to virtually anything at this point. “To not only speak to my _son_ that way, but to not even offer to let _me_ speak to him myself.” Aeleus shrugged, as he was wont to do, and the man seethed.

Isa was sure his best move would be to wait in a tense and awkward silence for Ienzo to show up, but something urged him to try and take back some level of control over the situation. “Well, now that that’s sorted out,” he said, earning a critical look from the man, “you’re welcome to wait for him by the door. Or at the bar,” he added, when Ienzo’s father refused to budge. “Can I offer you a complimentary drink while we wait?” They had a few minutes before Ienzo arrived; it wasn’t too late to drag Braig into the line of fire with them after all.

“ _No_ ,” the man said stiffly.

“…well,” Isa said, grasping for a way to turn this into something that even remotely resembled a normal misunderstanding. “I’m sorry for any distress this evening has caused you, and I hope there are no lingering issues you feel have been left unresolved, Mr…” Isa paused, having completely forgotten Ienzo’s surname. The man stared him down, offering no help whatsoever.

“Nozawa,” Braig and Aeleus said in unison.

“Thank you,” Isa said, half-glancing at each of them. “Mr. Nozawa.”

“ _Dr_.,” the man corrected. “Dr. Even Nozawa.” And Isa really did have to stifle a laugh at this point. It was astounding, how quickly he had acclimated to the sight of this man showing up at their nightclub in a lab coat. It suited him, at least.

“Dr. Nozawa,” Isa said. “Well…I’m glad we could end this on a positive note.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, _Mr_ …” Even said snidely, mocking Isa and making him all the more determined not to let the man know his name.

A plan that Braig cheerfully threw a wrench into by saying, “Quinlan.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Braig,” Isa said, while Even huffed, not really caring one way or the other. He muttered loudly enough for them to hear about their lack of professionalism, their lack of propriety, and their lack of care toward their customers, especially those who were underage.

Isa was irked by this—not enough to speak up, of course, but enough to want to. Not to defend himself or his coworkers so much as to call Even out on his own hypocrisy. He had arrived in a rage at the idea of his son being here, and now he was all but blaming them for Ienzo’s absence? At this point, it seemed like he was just projecting onto them his own inability to keep track of his son’s whereabouts. Though Isa couldn’t really hold it against him when the son in question was Ienzo.

It was only a few minutes more until Dilan escorted Ienzo into the club, clearly trying not to look as confused as he felt. Even’s righteous fury got a second wind, and Dilan actually stopped in his tracks while Ienzo walked ahead. His father strode across the floor, his lab coat flapping like the wings of an agitated bird, causing patrons to clear a path for him instinctively. The majority of them kept their distance, but they were eager to watch this conversation unfold. The crowd was small enough for most of them to have gleaned some understanding of the situation, and even those that had no clue were just curious to see the mad scientist pick his gay son up from the most prominent nightclub in Radiant Garden.

“So,” Even said, looking down as his son stopped calmly in front of him. “This is your ‘book club,’ is it?”

“In a way.”

“In _what_ way, Ienzo?” Even replied, with the speed of someone who’d dealt with the boy’s evasive answers for years and now expected them by default. Isa bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. _Don’t look at Lea_ , he warned himself, trying with all his might not to laugh. _Don’t look at Braig. Don’t even look at Dilan_.

Ienzo reached into his messenger bag and pulled out what he had borrowed from the library. “I have a book,” he said. “And this is a club.”

And Braig, with a stunning lack of self-preservation instincts, said, “Kid’s got a point there.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Even said, going from disregarding Braig to giving him his full attention in the blink of an eye. “I am having a _conversation_ with my _son_. Speaking of which,” he said, proceeding to ignore the son he claimed to be having a conversation with, “I am _appalled_ , but not at _all_ shocked by this point, that you’ve allowed him in here after hours. Against your own policy, I might add.”

“He said you were waiting for him inside,” Dilan pointed out, still too new to the situation to know he should have kept quiet.

“Oh, and _you_ ,” Even said, clearly having enough grievances for them all. “Charging me twenty-five munny just to come into this wretched place to find my son? Who wasn’t even _here_?” He gave Ienzo a stern look. “That’s coming out of your allowance, young man.”

“We’ll gladly refund your admission,” Isa said, silently adding _if you would just_ leave _already_.

Braig, on the other hand, was focused on more pressing matters. “Holy shit, Dilan,” he laughed. “You charged him?”

“He wanted to come in,” Dilan said, not quite raising his voice, but getting there. “I didn’t know who he was.”

“He’s the man who called earlier,” Aeleus explained.

“Twice,” Isa added.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dilan said, speaking mostly to Aeleus at this point. “Why didn’t you _warn_ me?”

“Ienzo,” Isa said, trying to regain some control over the situation by appealing to the most calm and rational person in the room. He only managed to make himself a target for Even’s attention again, not to mention drawing the eyes of even more patrons. They had formed a semi-circle around the scene, as if they were theater-goers watching some elaborate drama unfold. Isa checked his watch, realized that Lea should have started his shift by now, and conceded that they _did_ owe their customers a show one way or another.

A show he was now playing an active role in. God, they really had switched places.

“—to think that all these children are _wasting_ their evenings here, having their young minds _polluted_ by this—”

“The club is thirteen and over until nine p.m., and I never stay that late,” Ienzo said, looking at Isa for backup in a moment that took the latter by surprise, though he stepped in automatically.

“He’s correct. We’ve discussed the rules very clearly, and he always abides by them,” Isa insisted, feeling more like the teacher in a parent/teacher conference than the manager of a business.

“I do _not_ need you telling me _or_ my son what the rules are,” Even said, and Ienzo gave Isa an unusually sympathetic look. While he didn’t appear thrown off by his father’s behavior, suggesting it was nothing out of the ordinary, he did seem to acknowledge that it was, at the very least, objectively weird.

“Ienzo,” Isa tried again, “why don’t you go wait by the door until your father is finished here?” It occurred to him that he could’ve had Dilan or Aeleus throw the man out by now; he was causing a massive disturbance, and there was no reason to afford him any special treatment. And yet, at the same time, there was. Ienzo—lord only knew how—had created a status for himself that lay somewhere between a regular patron and an employee, just a rung below Demyx on the ladder. He had privileges here.

“Yes, Ienzo,” Even said. “Wait for me by the door. Do _not_ go anywhere else until I get there.”

With a brief, apologetic wave to the rest of the staff, and avoiding the eyes of the other patrons, Ienzo headed for the entrance. He subtly gestured for Dilan to go with him, if only to save at least one person from the whirlwind of scorn and wild accusations that was his father.

“Now, I don’t know _what_ kind of operation you think you’re running here,” Even began, which Isa agreed with wholeheartedly, “but I can assure you, I do _not_ approve of you letting my son be a part of it. Can’t even keep track of your own patrons. Unbelievable. Where _I’m_ from, if security were this lax, it would be _pandemonium_. An absolute _crisis_.”

“Understood,” Isa said, masterfully ignoring the finger pointed at his face.

“Fostering an environment like this, serving alcohol to _teenagers_?” Even went on, turning to Braig, who looked unimpressed. “I don’t know _what_ back-alley storm drain you shimmied out of, to say _nothing_ of how you ever passed a background check remotely thorough enough to gain employment. But if I so much as _suspect_ you’ve been serving my son alcohol before he’s twenty-one, the lawsuits will make your head spin so fast you’ll be strangled by your own grease-laden ponytail.”

“You know the legal drinking age is eighteen now, right?” Braig asked, while Isa simply warned him to drop it with a look.

“And _you_ ,” Even said, looking up at the stage for the first time, where Lea still stood, having remained silent for the entire ordeal and not planning to change that now. Even regarded him with faint disdain, not sure where to begin, and eventually decided to skip over him entirely, though the dismissive shake of his head and raise of his hand got the message across. Isa wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or indignant that his husband had been let off the hook so easily.

Aeleus was braced for impact by the time Even’s gaze landed on him. The doctor drew himself up to his full height—nothing to scoff at, but woefully outmatched by the security guard. Still, Even looked him dead in the eye and said, icily, “I don’t know _why_ you have my son’s number in your phone, but if—”

“He needed a lift home.”

“—else here even _thinks_ about using it again for _any_ reason, I will bring the arm of the law down on this entire establishment and flatten it to the ground. My son is in high school. He is an honor student. He’s at the top of his class and has never stepped a single toe out of line, and if you lot,” he said, encompassing the entire crew with a wide sweep of his hand, “try to involve him in your iniquitous business, then every consequence I’ve listed tonight will be a mere _glimpse_ of what’s to come. I did _not_ raise and protect and teach this child for eleven years only for him to be thrown off the rails by something as puerile and unscrupulous as a _nightclub_. So help me, if I catch even a _whiff_ of his school or personal life being affected by the goings-on here, you _will_ be hearing from me, with the authorities and a slew of lawyers the likes of which you’ve never seen before and never will again.”

Turning on his heel—a bit of dramatic flair that was unnecessary but fully earned—he made for the entrance, leaving the crew feeling as though they’d just endured a trial by fire and survived the roast of the century. They watched his retreating back, his lab coat billowing behind him like a cape, and Isa outright held his breath as he waited for the man to vanish through the door.

His departure was delayed by the timely appearance of Demyx. The groggy musician emerged from the break room just as Even passed the door, each of them wholly unprepared to cross paths with the other. Demyx stopped in the middle of the open doorway, his hand halfway through his disheveled hair, his eyes dazed and blinking as he looked the man up and down.

“Oh, and _this_?” Even said, turning back to the rest of the crew and pointing at Demyx, who pointed at himself as well, utterly confused. “As if the alcohol, the adult entertainment, and the absolutely _abrasive_ music weren’t enough? I’m telling you, young man,” he said, turning back to Demyx, who stood up straighter than he ever had in his life out of some deeply-embedded but inexplicable survival instinct. “You’re the one I want my son staying away from the _most_ , you vacuous pothead. If I hear so much as a _rumor_ that you’ve been selling _any_ variety of illegal substances to my son, I will have you thrown in prison for so long, that asinine hair will be back in style by the time you get out.”

And with that—along with one last sweep of his coat—he was out the door, taking his unshaken but thoroughly embarrassed son with him.

No one spoke. Hardly anyone stirred. The crowd was watching Isa, waiting for him to force the club back into its usual flow. Isa noticed that even the music had been shut off, realizing with a trace of annoyance that Braig had slowly cranked the volume down throughout the ordeal, eager to enhance the awkwardness in any way he could.

The horrible silence clung to all of them like condensation until it was gently dissipated by—of all people—Demyx, who said in a quietly bewildered voice, “I don’t smoke pot.”

“…thank you, Demyx,” Isa said, “for zeroing in on the most important part of that exchange.” As sarcastic as his reply was, he felt the mood returning closer to normal. Many of the patrons milled away, resuming conversations that had been interrupted, or starting new ones over what had just occurred. Either way, they left the crew mostly alone, recognizing that they’d dealt with more than enough for one night.

“Seriously, I don’t smoke pot,” Demyx insisted, still rubbing some sleep from his eyes. “Why does everyone think I smoke pot? Who _was_ that guy?”

“Lea,” Isa said, wearily, and Lea finally hopped down from the stage, taking Demyx back to the break room to give him a quick synopsis and give the rest of them one less thing to worry about. Isa rubbed his temples, wondering if it had been long enough for another dose of ibuprofen. Dilan wandered back inside looking absolutely flummoxed, silently speaking for all of them.

With an almost-sigh, Isa dredged up his last real burst of energy for the night and went up the stairs to the stage, tapping the microphone and dipping back down into his customer service voice. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said, a little taken aback by how quickly all eyes turned to him. “I apologize for that slight disruption, which I’m sure you all witnessed, or at least heard.” Light laughter, the sound of tension easing away simply by being acknowledged. “I also apologize for the delay in tonight’s entertainment. Rest assured, we will resume our usual schedule as soon as possible. Please enjoy the rest of your evenings, and thank you all for your patience.”

He signaled for Braig to get the music going again, praying that it was something with a gentle bass, and returned to the floor. A few of their more well-behaved regulars said, “Thanks, Isa,” as he passed their tables, which he accepted with a brief but grateful nod. After a quick apology to Dilan and a quick thank-you to Aeleus, he sent them back to their posts. Still a little wary of the front door and what might come through it, Isa went to the bar instead, dangerously tempted to order a drink, and refraining only because he refused to give Braig the satisfaction.

Braig, however, was in a much more cooperative mood than usual. He tolerated Isa taking up valuable real estate on one of the stools, behavior he normally only let slide from Demyx, and he even had the decency to give his manager a borderline sympathetic look.

“So, how’s that headache?” he said, and Isa finally indulged in a real sigh.

“I suppose that could have gone much worse, all things considered.”

“Oh, for sure,” Braig agreed. “Always could. Besides, I gotta hand it to you: you really don’t flinch, huh? All that threatening, jabbing his finger in your face—hell, the voice alone. Still didn’t get more than a blink outta you the entire time.”

Isa gave him a thin smile, satisfied but mirthless. “Child’s play,” he said coolly, before finding the energy to push himself back off the stool and return to his podium by the door.

* * *

“— _abysmal_ , to say nothing of the _crowd_ this kind of place draws,” Even was saying as he led Ienzo down the sidewalk through that very crowd, who were seriously rethinking their desire to even go into Higanbana anymore. Most of them stepped back but craned their necks, wanting to stay out of Even’s warpath but also get a good look at the guy they’d heard causing the commotion inside.

Even complained all the way down the street to the pale yellow station wagon, and Ienzo dutifully followed him without a word. “Truly a blight on an otherwise fine community,” Even said, opening the door for Ienzo and shutting it firmly after making sure the strap of his bag was fully inside. Ienzo could still hear him ranting, slightly muted by the car doors, as he walked around to the driver’s side. “This is a renowned college town, centered on _education_ , and what do its students want? Drinking? Drugs? _Dancing_? Never in my _life_ would I—” He got inside and shut the door. “—have expected this kind of behavior from you, Ienzo.”

And Ienzo, now in the enclosure of the car, smiled smugly to himself. “Do _not_ give me that look,” Even said, barely glancing at him as he adjusted his mirrors and pulled onto the road. He exhaled, his breath matching the soft _whoosh_ of the tires as they carried him back to more familiar streets. “I didn’t expect this behavior from you,” he repeated, “though perhaps I should have. Your track record is predictably unpredictable. Maybe that was my mistake.”

“Well, it sounds like we’re both in the wrong,” Ienzo said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t hold it against you.”

“Don’t you even try to pull that kind of logic on me, young man. You’re grounded.”

“From _what_?” Ienzo said, still having to remind his father after all these years that he couldn’t just announce random, parental-sounding punishments without specifying what they were.

“From going to that _place_ , obviously.”

They took a few more turns, passing pharmacies, small restaurants, and offices, until they stopped at a red light. After several moments of silence, Ienzo asked, “For how long?”

Even was about to say “forever” as if it were the only possible answer in the world, but Ienzo’s quiet tone held him off. He glanced at his son, who kept his eyes on the glove compartment, his hands on his lap, patiently waiting for his father’s verdict. Even looked back at the road and continued on when he realized the light had already turned green. “I assumed this was all an elaborate prank to make me worry,” he said. “Which worked, by the way, as I’m sure you’re _thrilled_ to know.” Ienzo suppressed a smile, not wanting to push his luck. “Do you actually like it there? With that music, and all the noise?”

Ienzo shrugged. “The music’s okay. It’s not that noisy until nine o’ clock, and I’m always gone by then. It’s mostly kids my age in the afternoon and early evening. Sometimes it’s quiet enough for me to read.” He picked at the metal fastening on his bag and looked out the window as the downtown area melted into the residential district. “I like the people, I guess.”

Even didn’t have a response for that, or if he did, he kept it to himself for once. They drove on for another few minutes, taking a well-worn route home, lit softly by street lamps. Ienzo didn’t say anything further, knowing that he had laid out his case as plainly as possible. He simply awaited the decision.

When they arrived at home, Even pulled into the driveway, parked the car, removed the keys, and said, “No school nights.”

Ienzo nodded respectfully, careful not to seem too happy and give off the impression that he’d “won.”

“And you need to tell me where you are and how long you plan to be there. Not just for this _club_ , but in general. And _please_ , for goodness sake, remember to check your phone. What if there’s some kind of medical crisis? That young man tonight,” Even said, having already forgotten Isa’s name, “he thought there might have been an emergency when I showed up looking for you.”

“Can you blame him?” Ienzo asked pointedly, and Even gave him a sour look.

“Can you blame _me_? It’s after dark, Ienzo. You’re still a child. I need to know how to find you. That’s all I ask. Agreed?”

Ienzo nodded. “Agreed.” They headed up the walkway while Even tried to distinguish his work keys from his home keys in the dim light, and Ienzo piped up, “In my defense…I left a note.”

“The inside of the dryer door is _not_ the proper place for a note.”

Ienzo smiled as Even unlocked the door and ushered him in. “You _did_ find it, though.”


	11. To Lose Is To Find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (First flashback chapter! Takes place when Ienzo is six years old.)  
> Chapter includes: Even, Ansem, and Ienzo.

“Even?” Ansem called, knocking on the open door of his own library, cordial as ever. His colleague sat inside, bent over a small stack of books, his lips moving silently as he read their contents to himself. “Are you busy?”

“Am I ever not?” Even replied. It might have been a tongue-in-cheek comment, if Even were known for those, and if recent events hadn’t driven him to all corners of the research facility over the past few weeks in an attempt to keep himself occupied.

Ansem lingered in the doorway, and while Even didn’t look at him, his expression softened as he flipped the page, only taking in about thirty percent of its text. “I’m no busier than usual,” he said, a bit more helpfully. “Did you need something from me?”

“Well, we don’t mean to intrude,” Ansem began, and Even, caught by the word “we,” finally looked up to see who had accompanied Dr. Weiss on his visit to the library.

And then he looked down again, slightly, to meet the pale and owlish eyes of a small boy who stood beside Ansem. He was holding onto the man’s outer three fingers, the most he could fit in his tiny grasp.

Even blinked, and the boy’s gaze continued on to the rest of the room. As he looked at the antique desks and chairs, and then up, up, up the ladders to the tallest shelves, Even realized the boy hadn’t really been looking at him at all—he was just a pit stop on the child’s visual journey around the library, their gazes meeting only by a happy accident of timing.

“Who—ah…” Even was about to ask the child to introduce himself, and then, unsure if the boy was old enough to speak yet, he looked at Ansem instead. “Who is this?”

“Even, this is Ienzo,” Ansem said in his deep, dulcet voice. “Ienzo, this is Even. He works here at the lab.”

Ienzo responded by releasing Ansem’s hand and wandering off to inspect one of the larger armchairs. He poked at the metal studs that ran up and down the front of its arms, running his fingertips over them like Braille, before making his way to the reading desk, ignoring Even completely. It was behavior that Even would have found rude coming from an adult, but was sheer relief when a child did it, sparing him the task of figuring out how to interact with the boy. He gave Ansem a quizzical look.

Ansem didn’t answer his silent question for a few moments, keeping an eye on Ienzo until the boy was suitably transfixed by the antique globe. He didn’t spin it, but rather revolved around it himself, tilting his head at all angles to read the country names. Even watched the child as well, trying to work out if his capricious exploration of the library was the sign of an advanced intellect or the mark of a hopeless airhead.

“The Corazzas’ boy,” Ansem murmured. “I’ve been looking after him these past few weeks.”

Even, to his dismay, felt a lump form in his throat at the mention of their name. Three weeks had certainly been long enough for him to get his thoughts in order, but a sense of peace eluded him. Not surprising, he knew, but frustrating all the same. It was their research he’d been throwing himself into lately, unsure if he was trying to delay or rush a sense of closure. All he knew was that there was work to be done, always work to be done, and that he was as good a candidate as anyone to do it.

He looked at the boy again—what did Ansem say his name was? Ignacio? Lorenzo? Vincent? No, he was getting further away from it. But as the owl-eyed boy walked along the pattern in the rug, following it like a winding road, his distractedness made more sense, and even evoked sympathy.

“He seems…alert,” Even said, neither critical nor encouraging, but simply making the most neutral observation he could think of.

“He’s very engaged,” Ansem replied. “But he hasn’t spoken a word since the accident. Not that I'm aware of, anyway.” He lowered his voice so that Even had to strain to hear him say, “He was in the car with them, you know.”

Even _hadn’t_ known, and he stared at Ansem, floored. Ansem nodded, agreeing with Even’s silent horror, but with a sadly hopeful look in his eyes, his mouth managing a smile in his yellow beard. “A light in the darkness, though it may be difficult to see it that way,” he said, at the risk of irritating his friend with his non-literal, vaguely poetic speech, though Even continued to listen. “Everywhere I’ve brought him so far has been full of reminders of pain. Colleagues—well-meaning, to be sure—dote on him and tell him how sorry they are, how sad he must be. We’re all all grieving for his parents, acutely, but I think it would do us some good to step back and reflect on how fortunate it is that he survived. As long as he’s here, things can be repaired. Never like they were before, but mended. Made new. Out of the ruins can come hope and change. His existence is more than a reminder of our loss. It is a miracle in its own right.”

Even slowly, fearfully, shifted his gaze across the room, thinking—despite Ansem’s words of hope—about how small the boy was, how young, bones still fusing, brain still developing. The scientist in him wondered how something so fragile could have survived the crash unharmed, and the rest of him shuddered at how easily he might not have.

Ansem sighed, quietly retracing his steps back from his own musings. His shoulders rose and fell, bringing his oft-worn red shawl with them. It was a regal, comforting article, grandfatherly and warm, but had always evoked to Even the image of a heavy mantle, meant to help distribute the weight of all that Ansem shouldered.

“My apologies,” he said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him lately. He’s a unique child. I want to see him process this tragedy in his own time, in his own way, without being stifled by social convention. Which is why I thought it might be helpful to bring him to the research facilities, where we care not for social convention and never have,” Ansem explained, trying to lighten the mood with self-deprecating humor. “We don’t want to rush his progress, of course, but his silence is worrisome. His parents had friends here, many of whom he’d met before. I thought seeing some familiar faces might inspire him to open up, but…” Ansem lifted his hands in a light shrug, and Even felt a pinprick of guilt that he wasn’t one of those familiar faces, in spite of having been the Corazzas’ colleague for the past decade. He’d forgotten they even _had_ a son until now.

“What will become of him?” Even asked, watching as the boy climbed one step of the ladder connected to the bookshelves and, upon realizing it had wheels, thought better of it and hopped back down to the floor. “Do—did they have family?”

“Only him,” Ansem said sadly. “I’m happy to look after him, but it’s not a long-term solution. And we want to avoid placing him in foster care at all costs.” Even nodded absently, not knowing much about the foster care system but trusting Ansem’s judgment. “He’ll need a permanent home. I’ll admit, that’s another reason I’ve been bringing him to work these past few days. It would be good to let him interact with others and see if a connection forms naturally. And of course, I would love for him to end up someplace where I’d still get to see him on a regular basis.”

Even kept nodding, slowly, but a little less absently, wondering if he actually knew where this discussion was heading, or if he was just being paranoid as usual.

“I’ve asked around the cardiology center, but no one is in a position to take him in,” Ansem went on. “I presented the idea to Otsuka as well; he was the first one to arrive on the scene. Another miracle. Maybe I shouldn’t have put that pressure on him. He didn’t seem comfortable with the idea, and I can hardly blame him. The guilt he must carry…” Ansem shook his head, chastising himself, and watched Ienzo as he paced beside the bottom row of the bookshelf, head tilted, reading every gold-embossed spine.

“This is the most activity I’ve seen from him all week,” Ansem said, while Even glanced at him apprehensively. “It’s a relief that he’s taken an interest in something. I think this environment is doing good things for him.” He chanced a look at Even, abashed when he realized that his colleague, a man who was famous among his peers for his loose grasp of social cues, was staring at him, with crystal clear understanding where Ansem was taking this conversation.

“I have to ask,” Ansem said by way of apology, and Even looked away, uncomfortable with the mere idea of what Ansem was about to suggest. “I know what your answer will be. I wish I could let this day pass without placing the burden of saying no to such a sensitive request on your shoulders. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.” He gave Even a small, respectful smile. “The choice is entirely yours. Say no, and I will defer to your judgment and never bring it up again.”

Even sighed. The last thing he’d wanted to add to his to-do list today was agreeing to adopt, foster, or even babysit a child, no matter who his parents had been. Part of him felt ashamed for his knee-jerk response of wanting to not only turn Ansem’s request down, but also ask the man if he had recently lost his mind. He tried instead to think of it the way Ansem did, reframing the situation into something positive: this request would not be an imposition, but an opportunity. The boy not a burden, but a gift.

…he couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t in his programming. Couldn’t think of it, couldn’t accept it. And he opened his mouth to tell Ansem as much, when he noticed the boy tugging one of the heaviest manuscripts off the bottom shelf, edging it out of place inch by determined inch.

Even took one panicked step forward, said, “Ah—!” and then turned to Ansem for help.

“Ienzo,” Ansem said quietly, radiating patience.

“Ienzo!” Even called to the boy, and then to himself muttered, “Yes, Ienzo, of course.”

But Ienzo, undeterred by the sound of his own name, continued to haul the book out of its spot, and Even was forced to hurry across the room and intervene.

“Be _careful_ , Ienzo,” he said, sternly, but not harshly. He placed his own gloved hands on the book, nudging Ienzo’s aside, and the boy dropped his arms, obedient but intrigued. Instead of returning the book to the shelf, Even found himself removing it the rest of the way, handling its weight delicately.

“Come,” he said, carrying the tome to the reading desk, taking it not from Ienzo but for him. Ienzo waited for Even to set the book down and turn on the reading light, and then trotted over, though Even suspected it wasn’t because he’d told him to. The boy’s chin barely cleared the top of the desk, despite him bouncing up onto his toes, and Even brought a small stool over for him to stand on.

“You’re welcome to view these books,” Even explained, unsure how to interact with the child or how far along his language skills would be under normal circumstances, never mind the trauma-induced mutism. “But you _must_ have adult supervision. Always ask for—always find someone to help you. These books are very heavy and very old—older than me, and Ansem.” He glanced back at the man, who gave him an encouraging smile. Ienzo didn’t look at either of them, entirely absorbed in the closed book before him, itching to open it, but abiding by Even’s rules about not handling it himself. He kept his hands latched on the edge of the desk, waiting for Even to open the book and to keep explaining and showing and teaching.

Even searched the desk drawer for a pair of gloves and handed them to Ienzo. “Here,” he said. “These must be worn at all times when handling any book in this library. They might be a little big for you, but…” He shrugged.

Ienzo let the pair of gloves dangle from his fist, scrutinizing them, before peeling one open and trying to squeeze his small hand through. He struggled, and Even awkwardly reached down to offer his help, but Ienzo pulled his hands away sharply, frowning in concentration. He was intent on solving the problem himself, however ill-equipped he may have been to do it.

Even felt the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile. That was a familiar look.

Once Ienzo managed to pull on one purple glove and started on the second, Even gently opened the book and said, “This is an advanced facility, filled with state of the art technology. But these old volumes are some of our most valuable assets. The gloves protect the books from oils and bacteria on our hands, which can damage the print and make it unreadable. Even too much light exposure can cause harm; that’s why we use custom bulbs in here. We control the temperature and humidity levels very strictly, and we require a specialized maintenance crew, as certain solvents in commercial products can weaken the binding. A little dusting is all the cleaning these shelves get.”

Ienzo didn’t look at him once, but Even could tell he was listening to every word, because his eyes followed along with the explanations: from the gloves, to the lamplight, to the air conditioning vents, to the high shelves. He peered at every corner of the room from behind messy bangs, which Even had the sudden and inexplicable urge to brush out of his eyes.

While the boy was both focused and distracted, Even cast another glance at Ansem, but the man had busied himself with research of his own. Even’s attention was commandeered once more by Ienzo as the boy reached out to turn the page, and Even quickly halted him again, demonstrating the proper way to do it so as not to tear the paper, soft and gritty with age.

He spent more time than he would have expected guiding Ienzo through the world of yellow parchment and dry ink, certainly longer than his typical ten-minute breaks. And Ienzo uttered not a single word the entire time, but filled his brain with them, eyes scanning the pages, taking in vocabulary that was surely beyond his comprehension. He was a quick learner in a new field, needing every rule explained to him, but never the same rule twice. And when Even told him that most of the rules on book-handling were about minimizing damage, Ienzo started to intuit some rules on his own, realigning the spine when the pages started to lean too heavy on one side, or turning a page with both hands to distribute the tension equally.

They were so engrossed in the process of teaching and learning that they reacted in surprise when Ansem cleared his throat, lifting their heads in unison and bringing a fond smile to the much older man’s face.

“Ienzo,” he said softly. “I think we’ve intruded on Even’s work enough for one day. It’s time for lunch. Come along.”

Ienzo hesitated, one loosely-gloved hand still holding onto the edge of the desk. But Ansem gave him a little nod, and Ienzo hopped off the stool, trotting across the rug in a straight line, not following any imaginary roads, turning it into just an ordinary rug again. He didn’t look back at either the book or Even.

Ansem sent him out to wait in the hallway, pausing to help remove his gloves before he left, which Ienzo tolerated much more easily than Even’s attempt to help him put them on. Once Ienzo was out of the room, Ansem turned to Even again, composed but not bothering to hide his melancholy.

“I still know your answer, though you didn’t get a chance to give it earlier,” he said. “I hope, but I can’t be naive enough to think that one short visit will change a lifetime of circumstance.”

Even gave him a thin-lipped non-smile, an apologetic little grimace. “He’s a clever boy,” he offered, feeling like he owed Ansem some kind of compensation at least. “That much is apparent.”

“He’s brilliant,” Ansem agreed, “but troubled. He doesn’t need a conventional home or family so much as a sense of stability, and dependability. Permanence.”

Even hesitated. “You know how much I respected— _admired_ his parents,” he began, carefully. “Nothing would be more gratifying right now than to know I had been able to do something for them. But…I can’t. I’m sorry. You know me. I can’t even care for the office plants properly.” Ansem humored him with a tiny smile, and Even concluded, solemnly, “I just…don’t have room in my life for this.”

“I know. You’re busy. You always have been,” Ansem said, treading even more carefully than his friend. “Maybe…it could be time to think about shifting some priorities. Just a bit.”

Under normal circumstances, and coming from anyone else, Even would have taken enormous and _very_ vocal offense at being told how to live his life, or to ever put his work as a lower priority. But ten feet away stood the tower of books he’d been poring over all week, books that the Corazzas had been studying before their untimely deaths. Books that Even bent over day after day with the obsession of a madman, using them to distract from his mourning even as their very presence sharpened it.

He chewed the inside of his lip and said nothing. Ansem gave him a conflicted smile, his bearded face steady but his amber eyes apologetic and appeasing and encouraging all at once. Even found it hard to look directly at his emotional openness, and he forced his gaze away in self-protection, as if he’d been staring at the sun.

“I won’t impose this choice upon you,” Ansem said. “Partly because it’s too important a decision to make in one morning, and partly because—selfishly—I want to spare myself the disappointment of hearing an outright ‘no’ today. All I ask is that you consider it.”

Even paused, then nodded, knowing that was all Ansem had ever asked of him, or anyone. It was one of the many things that had earned him Even’s respect over the years: the man never expected others to do things he wasn’t willing to do himself.

A point he further demonstrated as he stepped into the hallway and offered his hand to Ienzo, just as the boy was reaching for it. Together they walked down the corridor, and Even watched their retreating backs through the glass walls of the research library.

The child was what the general population would describe as cute, of course. Even was willing to concede this. And there had been something endearing about his combination of intense focus and wide-eyed curiosity. Even found himself wondering what the library must have looked like to his young eyes, and then wondering why he would wonder such a thing. He was clearly a bright boy for his age, though. Of course, that was no surprise, given his parentage.

The thought was sobering, and Even swallowed a small stab of grief as he picked up the massive book Ienzo had been so entranced by and returned it to the shelf, gingerly sliding it back into place like a puzzle piece.

It simply wasn’t doable. He had too many things on his plate, and however much he would have liked to perform some great, altruistic act in honor of the Corazzas’ memory, blundering through life with their son in tow would only be a disservice. Though it _had_ been nice to take a break; he promised himself he would remember to take more of them. And he did enjoy getting to know the boy a little better, however ghastly the circumstances. But he couldn’t take care of a child. He didn’t even know how. His work, as always, remained the top priority in his life, and there simply wasn’t room for anything else of this magnitude.

Satisfied with his rationalization, he returned to his desk at the glass wall, watching Ansem and Ienzo lead one another down the hallway. They suited each other, Even thought. And Ansem didn’t know everything, no matter how easily he projected that quality. Maybe this _was_ a long-term solution. Ansem was old, but remarkably healthy for his age. The boy was obviously happy with him. Yes, let Ansem lead him around the research facility, day in and day out, looking for that perfect match for the child, until it gradually occurred to him that they had both already found it.

Even was just settling on this thought when Ansem rounded the corner at the end of the hall, and Ienzo, trailing a step behind him, glanced over his shoulder. He scanned the glass until he located Even, catching his eye not by chance this time, but by choice.

Even froze with his hands laid flat on his desk. Ienzo didn’t smile, or wave, or do any of the things that adorable children supposedly did. He simply gave Even one fleeting, deliberate look before he followed Ansem around the corner and disappeared from sight.

They were gone. Even sat. He tried to remember anything he knew about object permanence in children, to determine if there was a scientific reason for why what just happened had felt so noteworthy.

“Out of the ruins can come hope, and change,” Ansem had said.

And Even stared at the Corazzas’ books, suspecting that he was on the verge of ruining his carefully constructed life.


	12. A Blast From The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: the Higanbana crew (minus Demyx, plus Ienzo).

“For the last time, you are not stripping to the Backstreet Boys,” Isa said, perusing the budget while Lea sat on a backwards chair, chin resting on his crossed arms. “I resent you for making me say that out loud.”

The Monday holiday found Higanbana even quieter than usual that afternoon. The entire crew (minus Demyx and plus Ienzo) were there for some overtime, but Isa was the only one with any real work to do. Braig pretended to take inventory, and Dilan and Aeleus had performed a halfhearted sweep of the place before joining Ienzo at his table with a couple drinks, waiting for the hour to round out. Lea hadn’t even bothered to clock in, and only tagged along to make sure Isa left when he said he would.

“It wouldn’t be a typical show,” Lea said. “It would be meaningful, y’know? One of their ballads.”

“I draw the line at ‘meaningful’ stripping. I don’t even know what that entails.”

“Which song would you pick?” Ienzo asked. “As Long As You Love Me?”

“Ooh, not bad. I was leaning toward I Want It That Way, but I’ll add that one to the list.”

“No, you won’t,” said Isa. “Keep brainstorming.”

Lea tilted his head back, wishing Demyx had come in today to help with music suggestions, or at least to provide backup. Isa could deny it all he wanted—Lea knew their combined puppy dog eyes _did_ have an effect on him.

“All right. You can’t say no to Britney Spears.”

“Try me.”

“Seriously? Just about anything from _Circus_ would be a hit.”

“As if this place isn’t enough of a circus already,” Isa replied, getting a laugh from both Dilan and Aeleus.

“Gimme More, then.”

“You and I both know it would be pointless to perform that song without a pole, and the stage isn’t outfitted for that kind of equipment.”

“Yeah, and I gotta jump in here with a point of my own,” Braig said. “Why the hell haven’t we installed a pole yet? Seems like the logical progression to me.”

“That’s what I’ve been _saying_!” Lea said, shoving Isa’s shoulder in excitement that someone—Braig, of all people—agreed with him, and forcing Isa to take a deep breath and erase the jagged line he had inadvertently drawn across the page.

“A stripper pole in this establishment is a workplace injury waiting to happen,” he said, brushing away eraser crumbs with a few neat swipes of his hand. “Lea simply doesn’t have the upper body strength for it.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Lea said with a disbelieving laugh. “I could handle it.”

“Your core is abysmal and your biceps non-existent. It’s a no-go. Besides,” Isa went on, cutting Lea off before he could embarrass himself by trying to refute either of those points, “Marluxia would never allow it.”

“How do you know unless you ask?” Braig said.

“I _did_ ask. He thinks it would be tacky, and I think it would be dangerous.” Isa glanced at Lea. “Keep brainstorming.”

They all sat in silence for a few moments, and even Dilan and Aeleus looked like they were mulling the options over. Finally, Ienzo piped up with, “Hips Don’t Lie?”

Lea snapped his fingers and said, “Yes, _thank_ you,” pointing at Ienzo but looking at Isa. “I fucking _told you_. Hips Don’t Lie is, like, my song.”

“I never claimed it wasn’t,” Isa replied. “I only said that you’re surprisingly bad at dancing to it.”

“Okay, first of all…thanks for saying you’re surprised. Secondly, we were in high school, and I was just messing around. You can’t judge it till you see the updated version.” Isa considered this, then shrugged, willing to accept that point. “And third,” Lea went on, “you were no help at all. You wouldn’t even sing the back-up vocals.”

“We were studying for our final.”

“Yeah, our _Spanish_ final. Which I aced, by the way,” Lea said, proudly announcing his victory to the rest of the room.

“Oh, ¿ _de verdad_?” Braig asked. “¿ _Y todavía recuerdas cómo hablarlo_?”

“ _Por supuesto_ ,” Lea replied, while Braig grinned and turned to Isa.

“¿ _Y usted, jefe_?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Isa aced the written portion,” Lea said, “but he flunked the verbal exam. I’m still not sure how he passed the class in the end.”

“Ah, so we’ve finally found something you suck at,” Braig said to an uninterested Isa. “Bet everyone here can speak more Spanish than you.” He glanced at Dilan and Aeleus, who each said, “ _Sí_ ,” and then at Ienzo, who pinched his thumb and forefinger together and said, without even trying to get the accent right, “ _Solo un poco_ ,” though Braig gave him an approving nod anyway. He turned back to their manager, looking for a reaction, but Isa had gone back to outright ignoring them all, and Braig deflated. “Your husband’s a real killjoy, Lea, I hope you know.”

“ _Pero él es mío_ ,” Lea said with a smile, and Braig groaned.

“All right, don’t _you_ go ruining my fun, too,” he said, but Lea kept going.

“ _Oye, querido_ ,” he said, snapping his fingers to get Isa’s attention. Isa looked up out of habit, realized that Lea was simply continuing to flirt in Spanish, and rolled his eyes as he went back to work. “Hey, _préstame atención_ ,” Lea said, laughing. “ _Haces que mi corazón arda. Tu eres mi luz en la oscuridad, el amor de mi vida. Te quiero más que a nada, mi marido hermoso_.”

“You don’t pay me anywhere near enough to listen to this shit,” Braig said. “Even for this place, that level of filth is unprecedented.”

“Are you seriously not picking up on _any_ of that?” Dilan asked, and Isa shook his head.

“If Shakira and Ricky Martin don’t sing it, then I don’t know it.” He rose from his seat, and Lea eagerly followed suit, until he realized Isa was just gathering some papers and heading for the back room.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “Thought we were leaving once you finished with that.”

“Give me ten uninterrupted minutes of work. Then we can go.”

“Ten minutes,” Lea repeated, as sternly as he could, while Isa disappeared down the hall. “ _Ya te extraño. Vuelve a mi pronto_.”

“Lea, give it a rest,” Aeleus said.

“Yeah, there are children present,” Braig snarked, pointing at Ienzo, who was now sitting with an open book in front of him. Lea settled back into his chair with his arms crossed and raised an eyebrow at the kid.

“Yeah, well, speaking of which. We’re not even open today. The hell’s so interesting about this place on…what is it, Memorial Day?”

“The free Spanish lessons,” Ienzo replied, while Dilan and Aeleus laughed quietly, and even Braig cracked a smile. And then, at Lea’s unamused expression, Ienzo added, “I was running errands downtown. Aeleus is giving me a ride home.”

“…seriously,” Lea said, glancing at Aeleus for confirmation. The bouncer shrugged.

“I’ve got no plans once we wrap up here. And I don’t live far from Ienzo’s house, as it turns out.”

“But didn’t his dad threaten to, uh…kill us, or something?”

“He said he would raze this entire establishment if we called his son’s cell phone again,” Aeleus replied.

“Right,” Ienzo agreed. “He said nothing about me calling Aeleus.”

“Look, no offense or anything, but I have to say,” Dilan began, trying to be diplomatic, but obviously about to be blunt. “You were hands-down our strangest customer until your father walked through the door.” Ienzo smiled, looking proud of both those claims. “I mean…the lab coat? Was that some kind of intimidation tactic? Or is that just how he dresses?”

“He works in a research facility,” Ienzo said. “Sometimes he’s there late. Though I guess he got home a little earlier than I expected that night.” Dilan nodded, comfortable enough with that explanation to wave away the mild oddness, until Ienzo added, “But he _does_ have a closet full of turtlenecks and lab coats. You’ll never see him without one or the other.”

“…bit of a nerd, huh?” Lea said, while Ienzo conceded with a shrug.

“Heh, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Braig said.

“I’m adopted.”

“… _bullshit_ ,” Braig replied, staring the kid down to try and call his bluff. When Ienzo stared right back, Braig said, “…well, damn. Birds of a feather, then, I guess.” He shook his head as the visual of the two of them together sank in. “Jesus. What a match.”

“So,” Aeleus said, “now that he knows you’ve been coming here, and not the library…he really is cool with it?”

“I guess. I explained that it’s pretty quiet on weeknights, and the music’s not too bad. And that Braig wouldn’t dream of serving me alcohol.”

“Kid’s a born liar,” Braig said, impressed, while Aeleus sighed.

“I mean about it being a gay club. He doesn’t have a problem with that?”

“Not really. I don’t think he even noticed.”

“Okay,” Braig said, in the tone of someone ready to bring an end to an overly long joke. “You’re fucking with us now, right?”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“What about the fact that there were, let’s see, _no_ women in the entire place?” Lea asked.

“What about the music?” Dilan asked. “Or the interior decorating?”

“Hell, Isa alone,” Braig added, prompting a distant, “I _heard_ that,” through the open door to the back. Braig rolled his eye.

“It was a _compliment_ ,” he insisted, while Ienzo shook his head to all of their examples.

“My father doesn’t notice those kinds of things. He doesn’t differentiate. He just sees a crowd of obnoxious, mildly threatening _people_.”

“Well…as long as he’s cool with it,” Lea said. “The last thing we need is you causing us more trouble.”

“Oh, _that’s_ rich, coming from you,” Dilan said, while Aeleus chuckled. Lea tried to hand wave the comment away, but Ienzo glanced between him and the bouncers, intrigued.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and Dilan grinned, looking a little too pleased to finally throw Lea under the bus after all these years.

“Lea was one of our biggest headaches back in the day,” he explained. “Isa, too. Don’t get me wrong, Ienzo; we’re still keeping an eye on you. But if this guy ever gives you a hard time about ‘sneaking around’ here, don’t listen. The number of times we had to throw them out for _literally_ sneaking in…”

“All throughout high school,” Aeleus said. “We had code names for them, they came around so often.”

“Butch and Sundance, I think?” Dilan said, the two of them enjoying their little reminiscence while Lea, normally one of the more shameless employees, shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“Yes! Laurel and Hardy, too. And Abbott and Costello.”

“Ha!” Dilan laughed, taking a sip of his drink. “I think we came up with a new one every time. It was just a little bit of fun for us. I’d hear Aeleus call out the names of some old comedy duo on my radio, and I’d know Lea and Isa were around somewhere. Ernie and Bert!” he added with a new wave of laughter.

“I kept waiting for Demyx to join them so I could use Larry, Moe, and Curly.”

“You guys are messing with me, right?” Ienzo asked, studying Lea’s mild embarrassment, and then glancing at the open door to the back hall. He couldn’t see Isa, but he tried to line up the image of the adult he knew with this story of a rule-breaking teenager, sneaking into nightclubs, egged on by his best friend. The only part he could come to terms with at the moment was that the Isa and Bert comparison was uncannily accurate.

“I promise you, we couldn’t be more serious,” Aeleus said.

“How old were they?”

“Younger than you are now,” Dilan said. “Maybe fifteen, sixteen?”

“Lea had just turned sixteen,” Isa offered from down the hall. “I was fifteen.”

“Thought you said _uninterrupted_ work,” Lea shot back, but Isa didn’t reply.

“After the third time, I made sure to check the birthdates on your IDs,” Dilan said. “Made a note on my mental calendar of Isa’s eighteenth. Expected both of you to be back there that night, looking smug as ever. But I don’t think we saw you again for at least a few years. What happened?” he asked. “The shine wore off once it was legal?”

“Nah, we were just busy,” Lea replied. “Like I said, Isa was barely scraping by in Spanish. And then we had college to focus on. Plus, we were newlyweds, so that took up most of our free time. We kind of just had our shit figured out by then, I guess.”

“You got married in college?” Ienzo asked, a bit of childlike surprise in his voice. Dilan and Aeleus exchanged glances, silently asking each other if they had already known this or not.

“Sure did,” Lea said. “‘Bout a month before, actually. Figured we’d known each other long enough by that point to just go for it. Plus, my ma always told me: don’t wait, act.”

“Is that what she had in mind when she gave you that life advice?” Dilan asked.

“Hey, we’re doers, not planners. My family’s all about improvising.”

Ienzo furrowed his brow, doing some quick math in his head. “Your ten-year anniversary must be coming up soon, then?”

“…holy shit, yeah,” Lea said. “Next year. Goddamn.”

Ienzo and even Braig looked impressed, but Dilan said, “Well, regardless, you both wound up here after all. Don’t tell me you didn’t plan _that_.”

“You’d think we would have,” Lea laughed. “Trust me, I was as bowled over as the rest of you. I didn’t realize Isa was working here until my first night. And I hadn’t told him what my new job was, either.”

“Wow,” Braig said. “Great communication skills.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Lea said in his defense, just as Isa emerged from the back hall.

“Believe me,” he said, “it was.” Lea once again started to rise from his chair, only to sit back down dramatically when Isa held up a finger and grabbed some papers he’d forgotten.

“I swear, you’re doing this on purpose,” Lea said as Isa retreated to his office again. “I’m _starving_.”

“Two minutes.”

“ _Rápido, rápido, mi amor_.”

As Isa left and Lea slumped in his seat, Ienzo looked at Dilan and Aeleus and said, “For what it’s worth…I haven’t caused anywhere near as much trouble as they have.”

“No,” Aeleus agreed, “not remotely.”

“Even with your father storming the castle,” Dilan said.

“That won’t be a regular thing, either,” Ienzo assured them. “I don’t think he has any desire to set foot in here again, if he can help it.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Braig said. “But I can’t say I get why you keep coming back, either, kiddo. We know you know where the library is. Why do your reading here when you could hit up a place that’s a little more your speed?”

Neither Dilan nor Aeleus said anything, but both watched Ienzo, curious to hear his reasoning. “I don’t mind it here,” Ienzo said. “The noise level doesn’t bother me. And I’m abiding by the rules. I’m not obligated to socialize, am I?”

“Well, _no_. But it’s a little off-putting, sitting in a corner all by yourself. I’m just sayin’,” Braig added when Dilan and Aeleus gave him critical looks. “Not exactly the best way to meet someone, going out just to spend the whole time sticking your face in a book.”

“Why not?” Lea said. “Worked for Isa.”

“Ooh, is it time for a ‘how we met’ story?” Braig asked, turning his attention on Lea, to Ienzo’s quiet relief. “If so, give me a few minutes to go make some popcorn and then shoot myself in the head.”

Lea stuck his tongue out just as Isa entered the room and said, “Don’t bother. We’re leaving. Lea, can—”

Lea was already halfway across the room to retrieve Isa’s jacket, more of an impatient gesture than a gentlemanly one, and Isa sighed, sliding all of his files into his bag. He regarded the rest of the staff, no doubt about to give them some final, superfluous task to complete, when he was jostled by Lea wrapping the jacket around his shoulders, using it to tug him toward the door. “ _Vamonos, cariño_ ,” he said, while Isa shrugged him off and straightened out his shirt. And, looking at the rest of the crew, Lea added, “See you douchebags tomorrow.”

“Except for you,” Isa said to Ienzo, who responded with a blandly sarcastic little salute, which almost made Isa smile. He reminded Aeleus and Dilan to make sure Braig was out of the building before they locked up and he managed a quick wave at his coworkers before Lea was half-guiding, half-dragging him out into the sunny afternoon.

The door swung shut behind them, leaving the club cool and relatively dark again. Braig stopped pretending to work. “Man,” he said. “He’s like the patron saint of power bottoms, huh?”

“You’re kidding yourself if you think Lea’s a power _anything_ ,” Dilan replied. He got a laugh out of Braig, but Aeleus said, “Hey, guys, come on,” gesturing pointedly at Ienzo, who had gone back to looking at his book, though none of them were sure if he was actually reading it. Braig shook his head, still laughing to himself, and leaned forward on the counter.

“Hey, half-pint,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I stand by my earlier point, regardless of how it worked out for those two. No one ever got lucky by sitting around reading a book.”

“God, you’re ancient,” Ienzo said, so bluntly that Dilan had to put down his drink for fear of spitting it out. “No one calls it ‘getting lucky’ anymore.”

Across the room, Aeleus muttered, “I do,” into his drink, unheard by all except Dilan, who snorted in sympathetic laughter.

Braig gave the kid an unamused look that failed to hide his actual amusement. “Terminology changes,” he said, “but the rules don’t. It’s a jungle out there, and if you want to survive, you have to adapt.”

Ienzo rubbed the corner of his book absentmindedly with his thumb. “I’m not here to meet people,” he said. “Not like that, anyway.”

“Well, you don’t come here to dance.”

“No.”

“You always drink the same thing.”

“Yes.”

“…so…?”

Ienzo looked back down at his book, picking up where he’d left off. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding very honest about it for someone who had cultivated a reputation as a know-it-all. He shrugged as he turned the page. “I just like it here.”

Braig looked around, assessing the paint job, the overpriced menu, and the pretentious artwork. He was about to make some snarky comment about Ienzo’s taste when he caught the security guards’ gaze and decided to keep it to himself. When it was time to leave, Ienzo packed up his bag and waited patiently while Aeleus and Dilan completed one last round of inspections. Braig took off without saying good-bye to them, using the side exit to the alley. When they put the padlock on the front door, Dilan gave them a brief wave before walking down the street, which Aeleus and Ienzo returned before making their way to the Jeep, all of it feeling somehow as routine and familiar as any other day at Higanbana had before.

* * *

The sun had warmed the streets so well that they’d shed their jackets as soon as they stepped outside, Lea slinging his over his shoulder while Isa folded his over his arm. In spite of the reserved parking spaces for employees, Isa insisted on using a free lot several blocks away. Lea knew it was to put literal distance between their professional and personal lives, but on days as nice as this, he was just grateful for the opportunity to take a walk together.

“ _Y lo que me queda de vida, quiero vivir contigo_ ,” Lea sang lazily, mostly to himself at this point, though Isa did enjoy listening to him butcher his favorite Shakira song with his slightly flat vocals. Lea stretched his arms above his head, then winced, lowering them more carefully and reaching for his lower back.

“Damn it,” he said, “that’s not good. I think we need to start upping my chiropractor visits.”

“Or you could start sitting on chairs correctly.”

“Nah, she said herself it was the job,” Lea said, twisting slightly as he walked. “Good money and all, but it’s a killer. Plus, having that kid around makes me realize how old we’re getting. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

“You were never all that flexible.”

Lea scoffed, feigning offense, but he dropped the act as soon as Isa reached over, pressing his fingertips and then his knuckles into the small of his back, kneading gently. Lea let his shoulders slump and he sighed, almost catlike in his contentment. Isa continued until he felt the tension leaving Lea’s muscles, then reached up between his shoulders and scratched his back for a few seconds before putting his hand in his pocket. Lea shrugged a couple times, stretching his now loosened back.

“Better?”

“Extremely,” Lea said. “ _Gracias, querido_.”

Isa nodded, fairly sure he knew _gracias_ , at least. “What did you want to do for dinner?”

“I dunno,” Lea said, inhaling deeply to take advantage of the spring breeze that wafted by. “Hadn’t really given it much thought. It’s early for dinner, isn’t it?”

“You said you were starving.”

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Lea laughed. “Just said that so you’d get the lead out. You were taking forever in there.”

He laughed more when Isa shoved him with his shoulder and said, “You ass,” sending him stumbling off the sidewalk.

“ _Suavemente, mi amado_ ,” he said, returning to Isa’s side and exaggeratedly rubbing his arm.

“Once again, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Lea sighed, but he wrapped his arm around Isa’s shoulder, pulling him closer as they walked. “ _Mi ángel_ ,” he said. “ _Te adoro, te deseo, te necesito, te amo_.” He leaned in, kissing the side of Isa’s head. “ _Besarte es como ver estrellas. Eres tan encantador como la luna. Te quiero con todo mi corazón._ ”

“Lea—”

“ _Sí, sí_ ,” Lea said easily, giving his shoulders a squeeze before letting go again. “Just entertaining myself at this point. You’re really getting nothing out of it, though?”

“Are you going to provide translations?”

“Probably not.”

“Then yes, I’m getting nothing out of this.”

Lea looked half indignant, half amused. “Y’know, even the kid knows _some_ Spanish. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he was studying all afternoon, come to think of it.”

“You know school’s out for the year, right?”

“That’s what makes it so wrong.”

Isa laughed as they walked down the road, and Lea smiled at the sound. “I’ve said it before,” he began, “but, man…weird kid.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I mean it. He sits at one of the worst tables, orders one of the worst drinks, and reads a book? Makes no sense.”

Isa didn’t respond for a moment, then said, “I get it, to a degree.”

“Yeah? Then explain it to me, because if he’s not watching me perform or drinking something good like a Mega Flare, then what’s the point? Might as well hit the library after all and save himself the cover charge.”

“First of all, I’m fairly certain Aeleus is letting him in for free,” Isa said. “Second of all…we were drawn to the club when we were his age, too. There was a reason we kept going back.”

“…uh, no shit?” Lea said, giving him a funny look. “Because we were horny teenagers who were too nervous to actually do anything about it?” He shrugged with his hands in his pockets. “That was _my_ reason, anyway.”

“Well, yes. Besides that, obviously,” Isa said. “It was nice to have a place where we—and everyone around us—could just _be_. We all saw what his father is like. I’m sure it does the kid some good to spend a few hours a week in a different sort of environment.”

“Guess so,” Lea said, still sounding unconvinced. “But you’d think he’d want to get to know some people if that’s the case, y’know? Plenty of better places to read a book— _Jesus_ ,” he said, jumping back a step and moving behind Isa as a stray dog darted onto their path. It scrambled down the sidewalk and into an alley, seeming as startled by Lea as he was by it.

“God _damn_ ,” Lea said, holding onto Isa’s shoulders and trying to lower his heart rate. “Are these things multiplying, or what?”

“I think that’s the same one we saw before,” Isa said, craning his neck to get a better look. “And can I just say how flattered I am that your first instinct is to use me as a human shield?”

“Don’t mention it,” Lea said, taking a deep breath and letting go of Isa’s shoulders again, smoothing the creases out of his shirt. “That thing jumps out all over town when I least expect it. Scares the _hell_ out of me every time. Swear to god, it’s one of the Legendaries.”

“The world’s scrawniest Entei,” Isa agreed, trying to get one more look down the alley, but finding that the dog had already bolted out of sight. They continued on to the parking lot, letting silence settle between them as they wisely avoided the age-old argument of whether Entei and the others actually _were_ based on dogs or not.

It wasn’t until they reached the car that Lea spoke up. “Okay, listen,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat and waiting until Isa shut the passenger side door to continue. “There’s another reason we kept going to Higanbana, or whatever it was called back then. But you have to promise not to laugh, or tell anyone.”

“Yes to the second, no to the first.”

Lea focused on backing out of the parking space and pulling onto the empty street, and Isa waited patiently with his hands folded on his lap. “Well, to be totally honest—and bear in mind that you’re the love of my life, my one and only, _et cetera, et cetera_ ,” he said, as Isa waved his hand in a circular motion to urge him on. “I mean, obviously we wanted a safe place to hang out and everything, but, uh…I also had kind of this weird, inexplicable crush on Dilan.” Lea waited for Isa’s reaction, and when he didn’t get one, he went on. “It was just a kid crush, you know? Like hero worship, almost. Dunno if that makes it weirder or not. But seriously, he was like a fucking superhero. I mean, he picked each of us up with only one hand. It was crazy. I don’t know.”

He pulled up to a stop sign, glancing at Isa to see why he hadn’t responded yet, and saw him sitting with his head turned away toward the window, shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. Lea rolled his eyes and turned back to the road.

“All right, laugh it up,” he said, his face reddening slightly. “I asked for it, I guess.”

Isa shook his head and managed to say through his quiet laughter, “I’m _so_ glad it wasn’t just me.”

Lea risked glancing away from the road again as they sailed under a yellow light. “Are you shitting me right now?” When Isa shook his head again, Lea looked back at the road and said, “Damn, Braig was right. We need better communication. Shouldn’t have taken thirteen years for this to come out.”

“Like you said, we were nervous back then,” Isa said, smiling a little at the memory. “I wasn’t about to admit that one of the reasons we kept sneaking around was to get caught by the security guard with the dreadlocks.”

“Right?! How cool were those?”

“He was one of the people who inspired me to let my hair grow out.”

“Isa, that’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard. You should tell him. He’d love it.”

“Oh, he can never know,” Isa said. “Vow of silence. This conversation never leaves this car.”

Lea waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Shouldn’t come as a surprise, though. I think this confirms that everyone who works with the guy has had a crush on him at some point.”

“Even Demyx?”

“Demyx never shuts up about how beautiful he is.”

“Demyx thinks everyone is beautiful. Haven’t you ever heard him talk about Braig?”

“Yeah…I kind of get that, to be honest.” Lea caught Isa shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. “Not a fan of the rugged look, huh?”

“He has a face like an old baseball glove.”

“ _Jesus_ , Isa,” Lea said, bursting out laughing again while Isa shrugged, standing by his claim. Lea chuckled to himself for a few more minutes, and as his laughter subsided, he said, “All right, let’s finish rating our coworkers back home. I’m getting pretty hungry after all. Any thoughts on dinner?”

“I’m fine with anything.”

Lea flipped his blinker on and took them down to the marketplace, slowing down as he scanned the various take-out storefronts. “Kinda feel like Mexican tonight.”

“I wonder why.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A joke has been shamelessly stolen from _Frasier_ , and it won't be the last time.


	13. You, And Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback chapter—basically a scrapbook of Lea and Isa's childhood years. This chapter includes the two of them and their parents: Isa's father, who's in his forties, and Lea's mom, who's in her late twenties/early thirties. Both of them are single parents.  
> This chapter also involves instances of bullying, homophobia, and child abuse. It's more discussed/hinted at than explicitly shown, but proceed at your own discretion.

By age ten, Isa Brandt was out. The school called his father to inform him that Isa had been involved in a “regrettable incident” during recess.

Brandt wanted to know what Isa had done. Isa insisted that he hadn’t done anything. Brandt wanted to know what the other kid had done. Isa said the kid didn’t really _do_ anything, either; it was just name-calling. Brandt wanted to know if Isa told the playground aide. Isa said no—she just overheard.

Then Brandt wanted to know what the other kid said, remarking that it must have been pretty harsh to warrant a call from the school. Isa shrugged, trying to find some way not to have to repeat it, but Brandt was waiting, so Isa told him that the kid said he was gay. Brandt asked Isa if he knew what that word meant, and Isa said yes, thinking that was a stupid question to ask a resident of Radiant Garden in the year 2001, but way too smart to say so.

“…well,” Brandt said, “ _are_ you?” And Isa, who was still in the process of coming to terms with it himself, kept his eyes on the corner of the room and nodded. Brandt sighed, looked across the kitchen as well, in the opposite direction, and said, “Yeah, I figured.” And then, to demonstrate that he was okay with it—so okay, in fact, that he and his son could already kid around about it—he said, “I suppose that’s what we get for letting your mother name you, huh?”

Isa felt like he’d been saving that one.

When he approached Brandt later that evening, citing sources about the etymology of his (historically unisex) name, how it was most commonly derived from the name Jesus but also from Germanic words meaning “ice” or “iron,” Brandt just stared at him. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past two hours?” he asked, amused. “You put together a whole essay because I made a _joke_? God, Isa, lighten up.” He turned back to the TV, and Isa dismissed himself from the room, though not before he heard his father mutter, “Thought guys like you were supposed to have a sense of humor.”

The worst part was that Isa had genuinely tried to hide. Some deep-wired instinct told him not to slouch or lean, but to sit up straight and poised and rigid, and to be very careful with his hands when he spoke. But even that had been a dead giveaway, somehow. Isa had spent countless hours assessing himself, critiquing his behavior and mannerisms, trying to whittle away his flaws, but whatever he whittled away just made what lay beneath more obvious and visible, not only to schoolyard bullies, but to his own father as well.

As if to compensate for the loss of his figurative closet, Isa started spending more time in literal ones: his bedroom closet, the linen closet, even the small storage area under one of the stairwells at school. He was old enough to realize he should have outgrown this habit by now, but apparently not old enough to have actually done so. He knew he wasn’t _hiding_ , because he did it even when he had the house to himself. In fact, that was when he enjoyed it most. He could pile up some pillows, bring a book or a video game and some snacks, and spend hours in those hideaways without having to stay alert for footsteps.

It wasn’t just enclosed spaces that he liked—any out-of-the-way place not intended for regular use drew his attention and became his own. If it was a nice enough day, he’d even climb onto the small rooftop that jutted out over the driveway. His room was directly over the garage, and on summer days when he was left alone, he’d watch his father’s car disappear down the road, then make a quick phone call, climb out his window and onto the ledge with an ice cream bar, and wait.

Isa would hear the squeak of the old red bike before he saw it, but soon Lea Quinlan would be rounding the corner and pulling into the driveway, knocking down the kickstand, or more often letting the bike topple onto Brandt’s meticulously maintained lawn. He never seemed to realize that this kind of treatment only made the squeaking worse.

He never remembered to look up, either. He’d always head straight for the front door to ring the bell. Isa would either catch his attention with a whistle, or, depending on how far he’d gotten with the ice cream, wait until Lea was close enough to the house for Isa to toss the popsicle stick at his head. He had greatly improved his hand-eye coordination this way, and it was always a bit of petty fun to watch Lea try and shake the stick loose from his hair, cursing as it stuck to his spikes or dropped down the back of his shirt.

But when he finally looked up and spotted Isa, perched on the roof like a gargoyle, laughing at him, Lea broke into a grin, beaming like the sun. It always made Isa feel like the metaphorical moon: invisible until Lea shone on him, sharing his light.

They’d been inseparable since they were eight years old, though Isa had tried everything to separate from him the day they first met. His aptly-named nervous system had lit up as a freckled, redheaded weirdo pulled him to his feet and started bringing him on one adventure after another, when all Isa had wanted to do was spend some time away from the house, quietly reading a book, neither bothering nor being bothered by anyone. But soon it became second nature to check the answering machine, or to ask his father for a ride to the movies, or to gravitate to each other for class projects. Isa would dare Lea to do something, and Lea would do it without question, or Lea would come up with some zany, half-baked pipe dream that didn’t seem remotely possible until Isa said, “Yes.”

Which was how Isa ended up letting Lea paint his nails on an otherwise ordinary summer day at the Quinlans’ home. They sat facing each other on Lea’s bedroom floor—Lea cross-legged, Isa with his feet tucked underneath him. Lea held Isa’s hands as still as he could and painted one blue, the other white, and Isa, who was normally a stickler for symmetry, loved it. It was a foreign sensation, but he got used to it fast, and he even enjoyed the methodical feeling of Lea dragging the small brush over his nails and transforming them before his eyes.

Until it was time for Isa to go home for dinner, and he said, “All right, how do I take it off?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“The paint. How do I take off the paint? Where’s the remover?”

“Uh…I don’t have any?”

And even at such a young age, Isa had mastered the long, condemning silence, followed by the flattest, most deadpan, “ _What_.”

Lea was about to repeat himself, then thought better of it and shrugged helplessly. “I just wear it till it chips off,” he said, sensing that a meltdown might be imminent. Right on schedule, Isa started hyperventilating.

“Okay, okay,” he said, looking around the room as if a giant bottle of nail polish remover might materialize on the spot, and then looking back down at his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“ _No_ , Lea, it’s _not_ okay,” Isa snapped, and Lea held his hands up and said, “ _Okay_.”

“What about your mom? Where does she keep her nail polish remover?”

“She doesn’t have any.”

“But she’s a girl.”

“She doesn’t wear nail polish, Isa!”

“I don’t believe this. What kind of moron has nail polish but no nail polish remover?”

“I don’t know!”

“Oh my god,” Isa moaned, covering his face with his hands so he wouldn’t have to look at them. “Oh my _god_.”

It took a few minutes for Lea to get him downstairs, but soon he was running into the family room with Isa in tow, shouting, “Ma! Ma! You gotta drive us to the pharmacy _now_! It’s an emergency!”

Ms. Quinlan, who had already been mildly curious about their footsteps rushing down the stairs, now rose from her chair in alarm. “What happened?” she asked, assessing them with the speed and efficiency of someone who dealt with medical crises for a living. “Are you hurt? Did you get something in your eyes? Do I need the first aid kit?”

“We screwed up, Ma! We screwed up!”

“Lea, Isa, _what happened_?”

Lea, practically dancing from one foot to the other, simply held out Isa’s hands by the wrists, presenting his colossal blunder, while Isa looked up at her with wildly pleading eyes.

Ms. Quinlan stared at Isa’s hands, and then at the two boys about to boil over with anxiety, and then she sighed, summoning an inhuman amount of willpower not to let herself sit back down. “Give me three minutes,” she said, causing Isa to finally exhale, so suddenly and forcefully that it made Lea jump.

On the way to the store, she gave the two of them a pointed reminder about what kinds of situations warrant the word “emergency,” especially when paired with medical terms like “pharmacy.” And as they walked through the aisles, grabbing the polish remover and cotton swabs, along with anything else she could think of that she was running low on, she wondered if she should have left them at home. Lea trailed after her with a bothered look on his face, and Isa trudged along behind them both, hands hidden deep in his pockets the entire time, neither one saying a word except a mumbled, “Thanks,” when she paid for the supplies.

The three of them gathered at the kitchen table fifteen minutes later, where Ms. Quinlan carefully soaked Isa’s nails one by one with a wet cotton swab before swiping the color off, leaving each finger plain again. Lea apologized profusely after every one, until she said, “Lea, it’s all right; I think he heard you the first seven times,” bringing a small smile to Isa’s face despite the circumstances. When she finished with Isa and sent him to the sink to wash his hands, Lea took his place at the table, holding out his own orange-and-yellow-painted fingers.

“What?” Ms. Quinlan said.

“Do mine next.”

“Lea, you don’t have to take it off,” she said, patient but confused, wondering if he thought the rules had changed after the events of the afternoon. He kept holding his hand out while Isa stood at the faucet, lathering soap over his fingertips until they smelled like Dial instead of acetone.

“It’s my fault,” Lea said firmly. “I was being a moron. I could’ve gotten Isa in trouble.”

“Lea, you’re not a moron,” Ms. Quinlan said, doing her best to sound sincere but finding it hard not to laugh at the level of seriousness with which he presented his technicolor fingernails. “I think you’re being a little dramatic. It was just a mistake. No one got hurt.”

“I made Isa upset,” he said, and Isa looked down as he dried his hands, discomfort clear on his face. Lea slid his hand forward on the table, looking up at his mom. “Please? It’s only fair.”

Ms. Quinlan hesitated, then relented, thinking her son’s demand was very unnecessary, but all the more admirable because of it. She uncapped the bottle and rubbed his fingernails clean, a process that went much faster than Isa’s, given how chipped Lea’s nail polish was to begin with.

Isa barely uttered a word on the drive back to his house, but by the time the Quinlans returned home, there was a blinking light on their answering machine. “Hi, it’s Isa,” he said while Ms. Quinlan turned up the volume to hear him better. “I just wanted to apologize about earlier. I know I freaked out. Thank you for driving us into town, Ms. Quinlan. I really appreciate it. Um, Lea, sorry I got mad. You’re not a moron. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. G’night.” Lea smiled, and Ms. Quinlan tousled his hair before returning to the kitchen to get dinner started.

By age twelve, Isa felt like he was walking a tightrope: trying not to hide, but still hoping to somehow stay hidden. He’d taken on most of the household chores by that point, and one evening his father entered the kitchen while Isa was clearing the counter from dinner. Isa stood at the sink, waiting to see what he wanted.

Brandt took in the scene—his son washing the dishes, gloves almost up to his elbows, a Whitney Houston CD playing quietly in the background while he worked—and said, with an overly-weary sigh, “It’s like your mother never left us at all.”

It was one of his talents: taking a remark that could have easily been heartwarming and turning it into something that made Isa feel embarrassed instead. Brandt left after grabbing a drink from the fridge, and Isa turned down the music, not completely off, but too quiet to hear.

In the fall, Lea got permission from his mom to invite Isa on their annual trip for the long weekend. Isa had even gotten the okay from Brandt, who said it would be good for Isa to get a change of scenery from Radiant Garden for a while, and that it would be nice for him to get some peace and quiet, too. He dropped Isa off at the Quinlans’ house on Friday afternoon, and Lea dragged Isa upstairs to make sure he packed his bag correctly and to play video games while they waited for the trip to commence.

It was an unseasonably warm day, warm enough for Lea to have left the window in his room open. Brandt and Ms. Quinlan’s conversation drifted up from the walkway. They always seemed to find those in-between places to talk. Ms. Quinlan never neglected to invite him inside, but Brandt always managed to be running late for some errand or appointment, and she didn’t insist. Through the sounds of Lea winning the umpteenth round of Mario Kart, they listened to the adults talk.

“What time do you think you’ll be getting back on Monday?”

“Four, maybe five? Not too late, definitely in time for dinner if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

“No, no, just curious. A lot of activities planned out?”

“Oh, god, tons. We never have enough time for everything we want to do. We always hit the hiking trails and the lake, though. He certainly won’t get bored.”

“Good, well, I packed his inhaler in the side pocket of his bag. He doesn’t seem to use it much these days, but just in case.”

“Good.”

“And what about sleeping arrangements?”

“There’s one bedroom, and then a pull-out couch in the living room. I’ve got dibs on the bed; they’ll be taking the pull-out.”

“They’re sharing?”

“It’s big, there’s plenty of room for them both. I just can’t sleep on it with my back.”

“Do you think that’s suitable?”

“…yes? Lea always takes the pull-out, and he’s never complained. I’m sure it’ll be fine for Isa, too.”

“I just…question the appropriateness of it, that’s all.”

“Well, how about you go ahead and tell me why, Arthur? Because I gotta say, I don’t follow.”

“Yes you do.”

There were a few moments of silence before Ms. Quinlan said, “Look,” but the rest of the conversation was too quiet to hear. The only sound in Lea’s room was the rustle of dead leaves outside his window and the endless loop of the Mario Kart menu. They sat side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other. Isa kept an uncomfortable but familiar silence in the wake of his father’s comments, while Lea burned with anger and a kind of embarrassment he hadn’t known until now. They were thrust into an awful middle ground without even realizing they’d gotten there, both young enough and old enough for their parents to be having discussions like this about them.

Eventually, Brandt called Isa back downstairs, to say good-bye and to remind him to be polite and well-behaved. Ms. Quinlan lingered in the front hall while Lea slunk past her to the kitchen, pretending to rearrange the contents of the portable cooler until Brandt was gone. But an hour into the drive, Lea and Isa were laughing together again in the backseat, remembering inside jokes and forgetting tense conversations. Ms. Quinlan took them out for dinner and supervised their stovetop s’mores, then left them alone to watch movies for the rest of the night while she took a bath and then sank into a well-deserved sleep by nine o’ clock.

The two boys stayed up past midnight, watching poorly-edited scary movie marathons on TV and reenacting some of the hijinks they’d gotten into so far this schoolyear, perfectly at ease because they were putting off the moment when they’d have to acknowledge that it was time to go to bed. And when that time came, after they brushed their teeth and turned off the lights that Ms. Quinlan, in her exhaustion, had overlooked, they reconvened at the pull-out, old enough to feel uncomfortable, but young enough not to fully grasp why.

And when Lea helped Isa unfold the couch and then carefully arranged the cushions in a row on the floor, Isa tossed a pillow and a blanket down to him and promised to switch places the following night.

By age thirteen, Isa seemed to get a break from Brandt’s little comments, until he realized they’d just taken on a more subtle, insidious approach. It was another balancing act: Isa feeling certain that he was being made fun of, but knowing that there wasn’t enough evidence to bring it up without subjecting himself to endless claims of, “For Christ’s sake, Isa, it’s a _joke_. I’m just not allowed to say _anything_ around you, am I?” For the most part, Isa defaulted to saying nothing and simply letting his father have a monopoly on conversation in the household. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a tactic that had served him well enough so far.

On the other hand, Lea and Isa had discovered kissing and couldn’t have cared less about anything else. It remained their favorite and easily their most awkward pastime. Their dual natures, usually allowing them to strike a perfect balance of temperaments, now worked against them as they tried to figure out their rhythm, with Lea too energetic to focus and Isa too focused to relax. It took them a long time to realize that every kiss wouldn’t be their last, that the universe wasn’t actually closing in until it compressed them out of existence. But still they sought out secret places, secluded or outright abandoned spots around town, to figure out what everyone around them seemed to have already learned without trying.

Lea let Isa set the pace more often than not, though one time he brought his hands from Isa’s shoulders down to his waist, and Isa nearly jumped out of his skin. Lea laughed for almost half an hour, and that was the end of that for the day. Isa got him back next time, hidden in the Crystal Fissure, when he planted kisses on Lea’s freckles, scattered like raindrops over the bridge of his nose. Lea laughed at first, reflexively, but quickly looked down and away, a reaction that fascinated Isa, who had always thought of himself as the shyer one.

By age fourteen, Isa had begun to let his hair grow out, just a bit longer in the back. It was a risk, but spending time with Lea had taught him that risks sometimes yielded rewards.

Even Brandt had responded with surprising neutrality, which Isa had to believe was an attempt to be complimentary, even supportive. “Your hair’s getting pretty long,” he said, while Isa stood as straight-backed as he could, waiting to see which direction the follow-up comment would take. Brandt considered him for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Well, at least you’re not wearing jewelry, I guess.”

That evening on the phone, Lea said, “Yo, we’re all set for this weekend. Ma got the day off so she can drive us and stuff. One o’ clock sound good for us to pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Isa said, winding the springy phone cord around his fingers. “I might sit this one out, actually. I’ll still go with you, though.”

“Oh my god, you wuss. It barely even hurts. It’s over in two seconds. And we can only do the earlobes, anyway. Ma said the cartilage was a ‘gangrene magnet’ or something. But she promised to show us how to disinfect it and everything.”

Isa said nothing, his fingers mummified by the telephone cord, and Lea said, “C’mon, what gives? You're backing out now, after I've gone through with every crazy dare you've ever given me? This was your idea.”

“I know. I just changed my mind, that’s all.”

“...what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Isa.”

“Listen,” Isa said, before Lea had to yank it out of him like a tooth. “It’s not what you’re thinking. You didn’t hear him. He actually sounded okay with the hair. I think he’s starting to come around. I just don’t want to push it right now.”

“He likes the hair? What did he say?”

“He noticed it was getting long, and all he said was ‘at least you’re not wearing jewelry.’ So obviously this isn't the best time to go and get my ears pierced. He's gonna think I did it just to piss him off.”

“What the hell? I’d feel _awful_ if Ma said that to me.”

“Well, you’re not me. And she’s not him. You don’t get it. This is a win for me, all right? I’ve been careful about this stuff forever and I think it’s finally paying off. Why are you trying to make me feel like shit about this?”

He heard Lea take a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh, but after a few seconds of silence he said, “All right. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

“Okay.”

They both sat there awkwardly, waiting for the tension to fizzle out, until Lea said, “So, you still wanna go out on Saturday?”

“Yeah, of course,” Isa said right away, desperate to sound agreeable after whatever kind of argument they had just had. “I mean, I still wanna see you get your ears done.”

“Eh…I’ll do it some other time.”

“Lea, c’mon.”

“It’s no big deal. We’ll find something else to do. I’ll just tell Ma she doesn’t need to come with us after all. We can take the trolley.”

“All right,” Isa said, neither sounding nor feeling all right. He told himself to be content with what little progress he’d made, even if it meant sacrificing something else he’d wanted, though he couldn’t help wondering when he’d be allowed to ask for one thing without giving up another.

A few months after that, in late October, Isa sat on a stool in the middle of the kitchen while Brandt chopped off his hair with blunt shears, a trim that he claimed was “long overdue.” Not knowing why Brandt had changed his mind, and therefore not knowing how to get him to change it back, Isa simply sat as still as he could, gripping the edge of the stool, feet resting on the lower rung, hoping his father was at least skillful enough not to nick one of his burning ears.

When Brandt finished the job to his satisfaction, he went to work, leaving Isa with a fairly uneven crew cut and a pile of hair to sweep off the kitchen floor. And when Lea coasted up the driveway on his bike, Isa wasn’t waiting on the rooftop above the garage, but in his room, a baseball cap stuck firmly on his head. With some coaxing, Lea got him to take it off, though Isa refused to make eye contact. All he said was, “You were right,” more angry at himself than anyone else.

And all Lea said in return was, “Let’s go to my place,” because he hadn't wanted to be right. All he’d wanted was for Isa not to get hurt, which now seemed destined to happen no matter what.

They walked the mile to Lea’s house briskly, baseball cap back on Isa’s head, Lea’s old red bike squeaking intermittently between them in lieu of conversation. Isa finally took the hat off again when Ms. Quinlan offered to fix up the cut for him. He hesitated, but Lea vouched for her, recalling how she used to cut his hair back when they lived in Traverse Town. Ms. Quinlan insisted that if she could handle Lea’s spikes, she could do anything, and Isa nodded, trying not to laugh, afraid his emotional dam might not hold if he did.

He sat on a painted chair in the Quinlans’ kitchen, surrounded by pale greens and yellows and oranges, while Ms. Quinlan put a spare sheet around his shoulders like a barber’s cape and had him hold it under his chin. She avoided questions but made a few casual, open-ended comments and observations. Isa didn’t say a word, though she saw him quickly raise his sheet-clad fist to his eyes a few times. He thanked her when she was finished, his gaze still glued to the floor, though looking a little less self-conscious besides that.

Before she left for her evening shift at the hospital, she gave Lea some extra munny and told them to go downtown and pick up a few movies. They chose old favorites they’d watched a hundred times before, and Isa even forewent the baseball cap halfway through their selection. When they got back to the house, there was more munny on the counter, along with a couple take-out menus. With some pizza and sodas, they set up camp in the family room and had an ‘80s comedy marathon. Isa sat in a corner of the couch, legs bent and feet tucked neatly beside him, while Lea sprawled on the floor, resting his arms on the cushions.

Halfway through _The Goonies_ , Lea got up to grab another slice of pizza and asked Isa if he wanted some. Isa said yes, raising his hand to tuck his hair behind his ear as though responding to the itch of a phantom limb. He stopped in the middle of the gesture, stiffly taking his hand away from his head and putting it back in his lap, and he managed a small smile and stilted laugh at himself.

But when Lea returned from the kitchen thirty seconds later with the pizza and sodas, Isa was covering his face with his hands, his legs curled even closer to the rest of his body than before. Lea put everything on the coffee table and gently moved Isa’s feet so he could sit next to him, wrapping his arms around him while he cried. They let the movie play on in the background while Isa repeatedly tried to get his sobs under control, a pointless endeavor as the final scene rolled around. By that point, Isa had been crying long enough to reach an almost absurd humor about it, and managed to choke out, “I can’t _believe_ —I’m crying—at _The Goonies_.” But as Data reunited with his father and Cyndi Lauper sang over the end credits, Isa had a fresh wave of tears to contend with. Lea arranged some pillows in the corner of the couch so he could lean back, keeping Isa’s head cradled against his shoulder.

They must have dozed off like that, because the next thing Isa knew was the sound of a garage door opening. Cortisol surged through his body like a flush of battery acid, and he bolted upright, asleep one second and alert the next. Lea woke up more slowly, blinking and trying to make sense of the dark room and Isa’s sudden movement. But when he heard the car door shut and saw Isa about to stand up, he caught his wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still a little scratchy with sleep. “Relax. What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. I should have left by now.” Isa cringed when the front door opened and closed, and he refused to even try relaxing until Lea let go of his arm, sitting a full foot away from him when a moment ago he’d been sound asleep by his side.

Ms. Quinlan looked even more tired than the two who had just woken up, and she paused in the doorway of the family room. “Hi,” she said, trying not to sound surprised, and failing. “I didn’t realize you were still here, Isa.”

“Sorry,” he said, quicker than he could think it, and she frowned and shook her head.

“No, it’s fine. Does your dad know you’re still here?”

“No. I mean, um. He didn’t know I was here in the first place.”

“We fell asleep watching the movie,” Lea offered, trying to be helpful. Ms. Quinlan checked her watch, which did nothing to calm Isa’s nerves.

“It’s pretty late,” she said. “Isa, you’re welcome to spend the night. I can call your dad and let him know you’re here so he doesn’t send out a search party or something.”

Isa hesitated, aware that both Quinlans were waiting for an answer, and knowing that the answer he wanted to give and the answer he needed to give were entirely different.

“Thanks,” he said, reluctantly, “but I should probably just go back.” He stood, and Ms. Quinlan quickly took off her scarf and rummaged through her bag.

“Well, it’s after dark,” she said, stopping Isa before he headed for the door. “I’ll drive you. Just give me a few minutes to unload some of this crap. And I’m gonna give your dad a call, just in case.”

As she went to the kitchen, Isa allowed Lea to guide him back down to the couch. He still kept his distance, but he didn’t protest when Lea reached across the space between them and rubbed his back. Down the hall, they heard Lea’s mom speaking with Brandt.

“Hi Arthur, it’s Catherine. Just wanted to let you know that Isa’s at our place right now. I’m about to bring him home. …yeah, we invited him over for dinner. He and Lea were having a movie night, and I guess I lost track of time. Work’s been pretty crazy lately. …all right, see you in a few.” There was a click as she hung up the phone, followed by her barely audible muttering of, “Oh, not at all, don’t mention it.”

Lea wanted to come with them, but Ms. Quinlan insisted that he clean up the mess from dinner and get ready for bed. She tried to get a little conversation out of Isa on the way back, but he was a clam shell sealed tight, and she didn’t have enough time on the mile-long drive to Brandt’s house to figure out what exactly had caused his heightened nerves, let alone how to soothe them. The most she could do was sit at the curb to ensure he got in the house safely, though she drove away with the nagging feeling that she couldn’t ensure that at all.

By fifteen, things were truly improving, if a little frustrating. They were old enough to seek independence, but still a year away from being able to drive. They had ambition and ideas and energy and nothing much to do with it.

Even wandering through Radiant Garden had become disappointing. They’d outgrown and explored to death all of the age-appropriate venues, but weren’t quite old enough for the undiscovered ones. Whenever they ventured into the entertainment district, Lea seemed to take charge, but only because Isa had dared him to, neither one leading the other but both walking side by side, nudging each other along every few steps.

They stopped outside a club one afternoon, and Lea pointed to an alleyway just around the corner. “Bet there’s a side entrance down there. We could totally sneak in.”

“What, _now_?”

“No, not _now_ , Isa. When it gets dark. We slip in with the crowd, no one’s even gonna notice.”

“I don’t know. I feel like we’re already pushing it just by being here. You said you just wanted to look around.”

“Yeah, and now I wanna look around inside. I’m not saying we make a habit of it, but just once? How cool would that be? We slip in, spend an hour in there, see whatever’s—”

“You know we can hear you, right?” one of the bouncers said from just outside the entrance—not judgmentally, but rather genuinely confused by how they hadn’t realized this fact. Isa and Lea stared at him and his dreadlocked companion for a few stupidly silent seconds before shoving each other back down the sidewalk.

When they stopped around the corner to catch their breath, Isa said, “All right, there’s no way we’re sneaking in there now.”

And Lea, with an exhilarated grin on his face, said, “Are you kidding? We _have to_ now. Imagine how embarrassed those guys’ll be when they find out we actually pulled it off.”

Despite his confidence, or because of Isa’s caution, it took them a full year to enact this plan. They spent the rest of the summer complaining of boredom and doing little to cure it, opting instead to blame the town for not offering them more. Their most frequent activity involved watching TV at Lea’s house and making out during commercials breaks. They stopped wherever they were as soon as the show returned—Lea reclined against the armrest while Isa lay half on top of him, arms around his waist, head on his chest. Next commercial break, they picked up where they’d left off, and repeated ad infinitum. It was a lazy way to spend an afternoon, though Lea preferred “opportunistic” while Isa leaned toward “energy efficient.” When they were feeling more ambitious, they’d go to one of their favorite isolated spots on the outskirts of town and make out there instead.

In spite of this, it wasn’t until freshman year that they finally acknowledged they were anything other than best friends who just happened to enjoy making out with each other all the time. Isa had hoped, somewhat naively, that the start of high school would be a clean slate, a chance to leave the troubles of his childhood in the past where they belonged. Instead it was more of the same. No matter how stealthy he tried to be, something about him was readily visible, and it drew in a new round of name-calling and bullies.

The critical difference was that this time, it also drew in Lea.

Isa had been successfully ignoring his classmate’s jeers and mockery for a full minute before things got physical. But he barely had time to register the fact that he’d been shoved before Lea was shoving the assailant back twice as hard. Isa stood behind Lea without thinking, every instinct telling him that was where to go, that staying close to Lea would be even safer than running away. The other kid didn’t look angry so much as surprised; by the time he got his footing, Lea was already standing firmly in front of Isa, his lanky shoulders tensed and his fists at his sides, ready to be used.

“C’mon,” Lea taunted, taller than most of his peers, but nowhere near this kid’s weight class. Isa barely resisted the urge to tug on the back of his shirt like a child and beg him to just leave. “You got something to say? Say it.”

The kid regarded Lea warily, unsure how to adapt to the arrival of Player 2, before halfheartedly regaining his ground and saying to Isa, “Oh, real nice. You get your _boyfriend_ to fight all your battles for you, or is this a special occasion?”

Lea paused, his defiant glare fading into something a little more conflicted, confused, as he discerned an actual point in what was meant to be an insult. He half-turned to Isa, momentarily ignoring the bully as he raised his eyebrows. Isa stood frozen in place, and then, without taking his eyes off Lea’s, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Lea let his shoulders slacken, a dazed and disbelieving smile on his face, while Isa fought back a grin of his own.

“Hey,” Isa’s bully said, prompting Lea to whirl around with new energy and deck him in the face.

“Damn right I’m his boyfriend,” he said as the kid hit the ground. “And if you’ve got something else to say about it, save me the time and tell it directly to the asphalt. Isa,” he called, and his _boyfriend_ —god, he thought he’d never get over that—looked on, startled and enamored. Isa waited for whatever heroic one-liner Lea was about to spout off next, and Lea turned around and announced, triumphant and confident, “Take me to the nurse’s office.”

They’d both gotten an earful from Lea’s mom that afternoon, and they had to avoid eye contact to keep from grinning uncontrollably.

“I don’t _ever_ want to get a call like that again, Lea,” Ms. Quinlan said, undoing the school nurse’s handiwork on his knuckles and rebandaging them properly. “For one thing, no one needs you out there perpetuating the ‘fighting Irish’ stereotype. And more importantly, you’re not in grade school anymore. We all know you can win fights. It’s time to start learning how to avoid them.”

“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Isa said, trying and utterly failing to contain his delight. “The guy went down like a lead balloon.”

“Isa, _please_ don’t encourage him,” she said wearily, giving Lea’s hand a quick pat as she finished up. He flexed his fingers to test the bandage, wincing at the friction on his knuckles. “You can’t go around punching classmates without provocation. We’re _unbelievably_ lucky his parents aren’t pressing charges.”

“It wasn’t without provocation. He pushed Isa first.”

“Believe me, I’m with you. But the lawyers his family can afford would _not_ see it that way.”

“It was self-defense,” Lea said, and she gave him a look.

“It really wasn’t. I know it feels that way in the moment, but you can’t let your temper get the better of you. Just be there for each other, and if you really need help, go find a teacher, or call me. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lea said. “I don’t think you’ll be getting any more calls like that, anyway. Pretty sure he got the message. As did everyone else on the sidewalk.” He rose from his chair, pushing it back in while Isa handed him his sweatshirt. “Can’t make any promises, though. Sorry, Ma. It all depends on if they leave Isa alone or not.”

“I know. But please, both of you, just tell me you’ll try to find an adult next—if this happens again,” she said. “You don’t even have to do it. Just tell me that you will.”

“We will,” they said in unison, and she nodded, satisfied.

“Good. And at the end of the day, I’m just glad you’re okay, Isa. As for _you_ ,” she went on, turning back to Lea. “Remind me to teach you how to throw a punch without breaking your fingers.”

Lea saluted lazily with his good hand, and she gave his hair a quick ruffle before packing up the first aid kit and sending the two on their way.

It was late enough for the streetlamps to have flickered on as they made the mile-long trek to Brandt’s house. Isa reflected on how absurdly clichéd the afternoon had been: Lea charging in like a knight in shining armor, the two of them finally making their boyfriend status official, and now Lea walking him back home at the end of the night. He almost considered asking Lea if he could wear his sweatshirt—he wasn’t even cold, but it would have been the cherry on top.

Instead, they walked side by side, not saying much, though Isa did want to know if Lea’s hand was hurting. “A little,” he admitted. “Ma was right; I have no idea how to throw a punch.”

“Well, I’ll try to avoid confrontations for a while. Sorry, by the way.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Seriously. Sorry.”

“And seriously: worth it. Besides,” he said, grinning, “I’ve got two hands for a reason. One takes a break, the other keeps laying those fuckheads out cold.”

“All right, slugger, let’s be realistic,” Isa said, instantly self-conscious about the nickname no matter how sarcastically he tried to say it, but noticing that Lea stood up a little taller. “You did way more damage to yourself than you did to him.”

“Yeah,” Lea said, his joy fading as he flexed his hand again. Isa smiled sympathetically.

“Still,” he said. “I’m glad one of us is the brave one, at least.”

“C’mon. It was nothing.”

“No it wasn’t. I could never do what you did. I just…freeze up.”

Lea shrugged. “Well, I don’t,” he said simply. “Next time someone’s bothering you, just make sure I’m nearby. I’ll take it from there.” He held his hand up with a sardonic smile. “No point in both of us getting bloody knuckles, right? This shit stings.”

He dropped his arm back to his side, and Isa reached for it. Lea instinctively tried to twine his fingers with Isa’s, muscle memory going for a hand-hold, but Isa instead gathered all of Lea’s fingers together and lifted his hand back up between them, pressing his lips to the bandage.

It was meant to be brief, comforting, and a little silly, but Lea stopped in his tracks as soon as he realized what Isa was doing. The abrupt stop distracted Isa, and he lingered, his impulsive gesture turning into something slower, more deliberate, almost reverent. They stayed that way without moving until Isa slowly lowered their hands, those few seconds having gone very differently than he’d expected, and by the plain surprise on Lea’s face, he could tell the feeling was mutual.

They stood together on the open sidewalk, unhidden, illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlamp. Isa still held Lea’s hand and his gaze, and after a moment of silent staring, Lea quietly said, “Now _that_ was brave.”

Isa dropped his hand and walked ahead, flustered all the way out of whatever fairytale bubble he’d just spent the past few seconds floating in. Lea watched him go, still a little stunned, before he caught up easily with a few strides. He took a deep breath and let it out, audibly happy, while Isa was thankful for the cool moonlight offsetting his reddening face.

They’d taken a lot of steps for one day, but that only made it harder to stop, and when Lea tentatively reached out, Isa reciprocated immediately, this time locking their fingers together as Lea had intended earlier. They knew they’d have to let go when they reached Isa’s street, but until then, they walked through the neighborhoods of Radiant Garden, side by side, hand in bloody-knuckled hand.

* * *

Isa stood at the sink, wondering what the point of getting take-out was when Lea always ended up tweaking the recipes and adding more seasoning and using a plethora of cookware in the process. Still, it helped him kill time while Lea took the trash down. There was something reassuring and methodical about running the sponge in a circle and watching the detergent lather, especially when Lea stayed clear of the kitchen until it was time to dry. He could cook, he could fold fitted sheets, he could do a truly impressive amount of car maintenance and home repairs. But somehow, dishwashing remained an elusive skill.

Isa had managed to melt the congealed oil off the final pan by the time his cleaning playlist started over, just as Lea returned to their apartment. “Oh, hey,” he said brightly as he shut the door. “Love this song.”

“I know,” Isa said fondly, but cautiously. “I’m finishing up here, though, so if you’re about to—”

“ _Let me tell you ‘bout a place_ ,” Lea sang while Isa sighed, “ _somewhere up a New York way, where the people are so gay—_ ”

Isa tried to finish scrubbing the pan before Lea could reach him, but he shuffled his way into the kitchen and turned up the volume. Isa flicked his fingers at him without looking, sending soapy water off his gloves while Lea ducked and laughed. “ _Here’s a man in evenin’ clothes_ ,” he went on, reaching out and tugging lightly on Isa’s belt loop, trying to get him to dance along. “ _How he got here, I don’t know, but man, you oughta see him go—twistin’ the night away_!”

Isa rolled his eyes and nodded pointedly at the stack of clean dishes. To his surprise, Lea picked up the mixing spoon, but only to use it as a microphone. Isa suppressed his annoyance at the fact that it would just need to be washed again while Lea kept singing, striking a pose by the counter as though he intended to sprawl on top of it. “Save something for the stage, will you?”

“Hey now, you know I save my best moves for you,” Lea said, hopping up on the counter. He slouched theatrically back against the wall as he sang, “ _Here’s a fella in blue jeans, dancin’ with an older queen, who’s dolled up in her diamond rings—_ ”

“You are ridiculous,” Isa began, shaking excess water off the pan and placing it with the other dishes, “and I love you. But you’re no Sam Cooke.”

“Yeah, well,” Lea said, spinning the “microphone” idly as he leaned over and scrolled through Isa’s playlist. “You’re no Diana Ross, but I still wanna hear you sing along.” A familiar beat started up, and while Isa bobbed his head to it, he didn’t move except to tidy up the sink area. “Come on, it’s your favorite,” Lea said, snapping his fingers in time to the song. “ _Mama said you can’t hurry love, no, you just have to wait_ —”

“That’s almost the exact opposite of what your mom says,” Isa pointed out, and Lea didn’t bother arguing. He got off the counter and sidled up to Isa, using his absolute worst dance moves to try and tear him away from the sink. Isa held out for half the song, but when Lea asked, “ _How long must I wait? How much more can I take_?” Isa finally answered by draping the dish towel over his shoulder and turning around.

“ _One_ song,” he said, “and then you help me dry the dishes before they get water spots.”

Lea grinned without promising anything and took Isa’s hands before he could remove the gloves, getting suds on his own hands as he pulled him to the middle of the kitchen. Isa didn’t sing along—he never did—but he linked his fingers with Lea’s, letting him push and pull their arms back and forth, then swing them out to the sides and back in. As he led them through a graceless journey around the kitchen, it occurred to Isa, far from the first time, how miraculous it was that the man was able to earn a living as any kind of dancer.

When The Supremes shouted, “ _Heartbreak!_ ” Isa let Lea put him in a spin, and then found himself quickly but gently pulled in again for the final verse. Lea slid one hand to Isa’s back, keeping him close. “ _No, love, love don’t come easy, but I keep on waiting—anticipating—for that soft voice to talk to me at night_ ,” he sang quietly, tucking Isa’s long hair back, light catching on the plain silver stud in his ear. “ _For some tender arms to hold me tight_ ,” he went on, lifting both of Isa’s arms over his shoulders while he wrapped his own around Isa’s waist. “ _I keep waiting—I keep on waiting_ ,” he sang, and Isa leaned in to kiss his cheek as the song neared its end. He was just about to step back when Lea reached up, grabbing an end of the dish towel in each hand, looping it behind Isa’s neck and using it to pull him back in.

Isa melted into the kiss, pausing only to remove the dish gloves so he could hold Lea’s face. They kept all their focus on each other, with Lea strategically making sure that Isa stayed put until the next song began. At that point, Isa acknowledged that he _did_ agree to one full song and technically didn’t start until halfway through the last one, so it was only fair to keep going. Lea gave him another twirl and pulled him back in, and when the third song was “This Magic Moment,” they both agreed that they were practically obligated to dance to that one, too.

The dishes air-dried as the two danced their way through Isa’s playlist, moving up through the decades until they finally hit the ‘80s. They danced to Cyndi Lauper and Whitney Houston, Lea trying to hit the word “heat” in the chorus of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and missing by a mile. He’d never succeeded in reaching that note, but it made Isa laugh, so he always tried. They were an image of all the high school dances they’d never been able to attend: Isa’s arms resting on Lea’s shoulders, fingers knitted loosely behind him, while Lea had his hands on Isa’s waist, making sure he kept dancing along in their kitchen where they neither hurt nor healed, but could simply, finally exist.


	14. Second Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Aqua, Terra, and Ven, plus a couple other familiar faces.

It was the annual Radiant Garden Spring Arts Festival, and Aqua and Terra couldn’t have cared less. That is, until Ven came home with a flyer and said, “Hey, have you guys seen this? Looks pretty cool. We should check it out.”

So on Thursday, they ventured into the crowded Central Square. Aqua detached from the group briefly to buy herself and Ven some sea salt ice cream and Terra a Rockin’ Crunch. They picked their way through the labyrinth of art stalls, Ven wanting to linger at some portraits while Aqua tried to steer them toward the craft stations, her interest piqued by the glass-blowing and metalwork. They had a minor argument over what direction to take, which they decided to settle with a round of rock-paper-scissors.

Terra picked rock, as always (“You are _such_ a cliché.”), and Aqua picked scissors (“ _I’m_ the cliché?”). Ven picked paper. They tried several more rounds until Ven finally suggested that maybe this wasn’t an optimal game for three people. Terra and Aqua forfeited good-naturedly, and they agreed to spend a little more time at the visual arts stations before moving on as a group.

It was a compromise Aqua regretted as soon as they arrived at the photography section. “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” she said, openly pointing across the crowd. Ven and Terra followed her gaze, and there was Vanitas, in a faded T-shirt, standing by some wall of photographs as if he were just a normal person out for a normal day like the rest of them.

“Oh, boy,” Terra said, trying to keep the tone light for Ven’s sake but also sensing that Aqua was ready to square up at a moment’s notice. “All right, let’s go around this group and head for the landscape portraits. We can bypass—”

But Ven had already taken off toward the photography stand with an excited smile on his face. Aqua and Terra watched him, hopelessly confused, until he said, “ _Naminé_?” and a girl they hadn’t even noticed looked away from the photographs. She had a fleeting, wide-eyed look as she turned toward the crowd, but it was gone in an instant as she recognized the voice that called her name.

“Ven?” she said, as surprised as she was delighted. Ven’s arms were already halfway out, but he paused. Naminé took a small step forward, but paused when she saw that he had done so, too. Both of them hesitated, then laughed and went in the rest of the way for a brief and now mildly awkward hug.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, smiling as they separated. “How have you been?”

“Good, good. How’ve _you_ been? _Where_ have you been?” Ven added with a little laugh. “Feels like forever since I’ve seen you around.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy, I guess,” she said, glancing over Ven’s shoulder as Aqua and Terra approached. “Are these your friends?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Ven said, stepping sideways so the four of them created a small circle. “Aqua, Terra, this is Naminé. Naminé, this is Terra and Aqua.”

They exchanged polite hellos and nice to meet yous, and Terra said, “How long have you two known each other?”

“Uh…kind of a while, I guess?” Ven said. Naminé nodded, confirming his vague answer. “We used to hang out at the skate park back in Twilight Town.”

“Oh, you skate, too?” Aqua asked, though Naminé shook her head quickly and emphatically.

“No, no,” she said, as though the very idea were utterly ridiculous. “I just liked the view.”

“Naminé draws,” Ven explained, bragging for her while she reached up and pulled her braid over her shoulder, absentmindedly running her hand down it and smoothing it into place. “I used to see her sitting on the bench with her sketchbook, so one day I just rolled over and asked if I could see what she was drawing. It was a picture of the sunset. It was awesome. She used, like, every color.”

“The lighting is particularly good at the skate park,” Naminé said, as if she were trying to give all the credit to the park itself.

“She’s really talented,” Ven insisted, while Vanitas quietly strangled a surge of jealousy into submission as soon as it arose. Ven, oblivious, glanced up at the wall of photographs, his eyes searching them in wonder. “I didn’t know you did photography, too,” he said, sounding awed. “These are great.”

“They’re beautiful,” Aqua agreed, stepping closer to check them out, scanning the images of flowery excess juxtaposed with sparse desert landscapes.

“Oh, no,” Naminé said, her shyness dissipating, replaced by eagerness to discuss art made by someone other than herself. “I don’t know anything about photography. This is Vanitas’s work.”

No one said a word, yet the conversation seemed to drag along the ground for a few seconds before it came to a complete stop. Aqua’s and Ven’s compliments still hung in the air. Naminé stepped back, as Ven had done for Aqua and Terra, and gestured to Vanitas, who was loitering in the corner, gremlin-like, somehow the odd one out at his own exhibit.

“Ven, Aqua, Terra,” she said, “this is Vanitas. Vanitas, this—”

“Yeah, uh,” he said, the discomfort of being introduced to these three taking precedence over his desire not to interrupt her. “It’s okay. We know each other.”

“Oh,” Naminé said, surprised, and then confused. She glanced between the four of them, trying to understand how they could all know each other and yet not even acknowledge each other’s existence until she inadvertently forced them to.

“Um,” Ven finally said, breaking the old awkwardness and heightening a new one. “So, you two know each other, then?” He knew he sounded disbelieving, and Vanitas had a sharp look in his eyes, but Naminé smiled.

“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out. Small world, huh?”

“Small town,” Ven corrected with a little laugh, joining forces with her to ease the tension. He looked around at the other art stations. “Well, where are your sketches? I wanna see them.”

“Oh, I’m not part of the show,” she said, as though it were obvious. “I came here to see Vanitas’s art.”

At this, Vanitas glanced at Aqua and Terra, almost defiantly, and they both looked like they were still waiting for him to start a fight. Ven and Naminé stood between them, Naminé smiling pleasantly but all too aware of the friction, while Ven’s focus seemed to have turned inward as he pieced things together.

Naminé ended the silence, saying that she wanted to check out some of the other stations before their demonstrations were over. She exchanged brief farewells with Aqua and Terra, telling them it was a pleasure to meet them, and leaving both of them charmed by her polite, well-spoken manner. She asked Vanitas if he wanted anything while she was gone, and he handed her his water bottle, asking if she could refill it if she passed a cooler or fountain. She nodded, told Ven that she hoped they’d run into each other again soon, and then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd quicker than any of them expected.

The uneasiness descended quicker than they expected, too. None of them realized just how well Naminé had kept it at bay until she was gone. But she had also kept them adhering to some kind of social protocol, and without her there, it didn’t take long for Terra to say, “Well…guess we’ll be heading out, then.”

“Ven?” Aqua said, finally looking away from Vanitas, who did the same once he felt it was safe. “Coming?”

“Hmm?” Ven said, his eyes back on the photos. When he realized Aqua was waiting for an answer, he said, “Oh, yeah. I’m gonna wait for Naminé, if that’s okay; I wanna catch up with her a little more.”

“You sure?” Terra asked, as neutrally as he could.

“Yeah, I’m good. I’ll meet up with you guys in a bit.”

They seemed reluctant to leave without him. Terra even managed to catch Vanitas’s eye and exchange a bizarrely mutual look with him, silently agreeing that they’d all prefer it if Ven left with his friends. But, having nothing left to really say, Aqua and Terra shrugged and went back to wandering around the square. Terra gave Vanitas a quick, instinctive wave as they left, and Vanitas jarringly returned it.

Vanitas would have assumed that as the group thinned, so would the tension. As usual, he was wrong. With Ven just standing there, there was no one else to keep the conversation moving, and no one else to divert his attention to. Vanitas ended up looking at the crowd of tourists as if he had any interest in anything about them, and when Ven opened his mouth to speak in that saccharine voice of his, Vanitas was almost relieved.

“So, how’d you and Naminé meet?”

“When you almost ran me over with your skateboard.” It was probably an innocent enough question, and the answer disproportionately harsh, but it created a prickly vibe that Vanitas was much more comfortable with, and he clung to it.

Ven gave him a quick look, confused. “Huh? When?”

“Of _course_ I have to specify which time. A few weeks ago, a month, whatever.”

“Oh…yeah.” Ven turned his attention back to the photographs to disperse some of his embarrassment. “I was trying to catch the train.”

“You made me drop my phone. The screen cracked.”

“Okay, sorry.” Ven scratched his straw-colored hair, his embarrassment clearly reaching the point of discomfort, and Vanitas, for some reason, felt like he shouldn’t have bothered bringing it up. “If it makes you feel better,” Ven said, “I missed the train. It took me, like, two hours to get back to Twilight Town.”

Vanitas chewed on this for a second. “Yeah, actually. It kind of does.”

Ven rolled his eyes, but he didn’t dwell on it. “So, that’s when you guys met?”

“Yeah. You must’ve really been in a hurry, because you almost ran her over, too.”

“Are you serious? Geez…I didn’t even see her.” Ven frowned at himself, and Vanitas, not knowing why, reassured him.

“She was fine, just dropped her stuff. Anyway, we kept running into each other around town and decided to start hanging out. Realized we were both into art, and…here we are.”

“Huh.” Ven looked around at the rest of the art stations. “Well…cool.”

“Yeah.”

Ven turned back to the photos, and as he inspected each picture without saying anything, Vanitas started to feel fidgety. “So, listen, you don’t have to hang around. I’ll tell Naminé to go find you guys when she gets back so you can catch up or whatever.”

“It’s cool,” Ven said, still observing the photos. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay, look. She’s not here. You can stop pretending you’re interested in this, all right?”

That certainly caught Ven’s attention, at least enough for him to turn away from the wall of photos and give Vanitas a questioning look. “What?”

“I don’t know what your deal is. I just came here to show some of my photos. It’s not like a contest, I’m not expecting anything. They’re only gonna be up for a few hours, and then I’m gonna take them back down and go home. So if you and your friends want to rag on me about something, you’re not gonna get a lot of ammo here.”

Vanitas felt pretty good about how to-the-point that sounded, until he realized Ven was staring at him incredulously. The kid didn’t say anything for a few moments, trying to wrap his head around what Vanitas now realized was not a confident, assertive monologue, but rather a sudden and off-putting outburst.

“Dude,” Ven said slowly, as if Vanitas were something that might explode and take everything in the surrounding area out with him. “I’m just looking at the pictures. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you don’t want people looking at them, you shouldn’t put them up at an art show.”

Vanitas felt the pressure of shame on his shoulders, threatening to drop its dead weight on him completely. “Oh.”

“I mean, just for the record? I was gonna say they’re cool.”

“Oh,” Vanitas said again, not sure what else to go with. Ven pointed at one of the highest photos, depicting a harsh and vividly beautiful desert sunset.

“I like this one,” he said, standing on his toes to study it more closely. He scrunched his face up as a thought occurred to him. “Is this where you’re from?”

“…yeah.”

“Huh…cool.” Ven rocked back down off his toes, putting his feet firmly on the ground again. “I mean, I don’t know about art or anything. But I think they look neat. I like all the dramatic angles and stuff, how there’s no, like, straight lines or anything.”

“Yeah, uh…I did that on purpose,” Vanitas said, conversation drawn out of him against his will, but not quite unpleasantly. He gestured to an off-kilter shot of the fountain courts. “Stylistic choice. Kind of hard to make this town look dramatic sometimes, but I tried.”

“It beats all the flower portraits, anyway.”

Vanitas snickered, feeling like he was putting a crack in his mask. Ven smiled a little, though he looked unsure about it. Both of them stood there, just far enough apart not to be standing together, like animals keeping a safe and respectable distance at a watering hole. They remained that way for a few long moments until Ven broke the silence once more.

“All right,” he said, with a tone of finality. “Looks like Naminé really wandered off. I’m gonna peace out. When she gets back, just tell her I said bye? And I’ll see her around sometime, probably, now that I’m in town.”

“Oh, uh…yeah, sure,” Vanitas said, stopping himself before he said something normal like, “Oh, you’re living in Radiant Garden now? How long have you been here? Where are you staying?” In truth, he was thrown off by how readily he’d been about to ask, so he conspicuously said nothing at all.

Ven noticed, but he didn’t draw attention to it, except to give Vanitas some stilted parting words of, “…okay, bye,” before he trotted off to go find his friends. Vanitas watched him go, realized he was watching him, and looked back at his own artwork. He engaged with a few people who stopped to check out the gallery, but he didn’t say much until Naminé returned.

“Hey,” she said, holding the now full water bottle out by its base. “Sorry I took so long. I found this pottery stand—they were doing a live demonstration, making a vase with the wheel. I guess it was a little hypnotizing,” she laughed, while Vanitas took the water bottle by the top with a nod of thanks. “I’ve always thought pottery was interesting, you know? I always wanted to try it out, at least. I mean, not that I have the space for it in my apartment, and the clean-up alone…”

She meant to trail off as usual, stopping when she sensed that she’d talked too much, but Vanitas was watching her, not waiting for her to stop, but waiting for her to go on. She faltered when she realized not only that she’d been babbling, but also how easily Vanitas let her have his full attention.

“Anyway,” she said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’m back.” She scanned the area for the first time since her return. “Did Ven leave?”

“Yeah. He said to tell you bye, and he hopes he’ll see you around, now that he’s living in town.”

“Oh?” Naminé said, brightening up as she turned back to Vanitas. “That’s good to know.”

“Yeah.”

“…so…did you know his friends?”

Vanitas shrugged. “I know _of_ them. I see the three of them around sometimes. The guy’s pretty cool; he spotted me some change for the vending machine once.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Mhmm.”

“…but you don’t like her?”

Vanitas wanted to shrug again, but he felt like he was doing it too much. “I don’t _dislike_ her,” he began, trying to commit to what he said instead of brushing it aside with a dismissive gesture. “I barely know her. She just hates me for no reason.”

Naminé frowned. “Well, that can’t be right,” she said, and Vanitas chuckled.

“Yeah, good point. I’m sure there’s a reason.”

Naminé’s frown deepened. “No, I didn’t mean that at all,” she said. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to imply—”

“I know. Relax.” Vanitas held up his hands to quell her apology. “Just joking around.”

Naminé looked less worried, but still a little unconvinced. “You’re right,” Vanitas went on. “She probably doesn’t _hate_ me. She definitely has a problem with me, but…” He indulged in another shrug. “Whatever.”

Naminé offered him a small smile and looked back up at his photos. “Well,” she said, taking on the dismissive tone so Vanitas wouldn’t have to. “It was nice to see Ven again, at least.”

Vanitas looked back up at his photos, too, his gaze lingering on the desertscapes. “…yeah,” he agreed, feeling oddly like he meant it.


	15. How Come I Don't Get A Nickname?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Demyx and Braig.

Usually, Braig arrived at Demyx’s apartment with just enough time to banter for two or three minutes—five, if Demyx was lucky—have sex, take a shower, and leave for his shift at Higanbana. It wasn’t that he rushed. More like he was being mindful of time, Demyx thought.

But on this particular afternoon, Braig showed up about twenty minutes early. Demyx had gone to the corner store as soon as he got Braig’s text, telling Braig to meet him there. He couldn’t explain it, but something about meeting at a second location and then going to his apartment together was more palatable than sitting around and waiting for Braig to show up at his door.

They got right to it, which Demyx still wasn’t totally used to. He liked to spend time with someone before they slept together, regardless of how long they’d known each other. It wasn’t even about building the mood—he’d happily spend hours chatting, playing video games, listening to music, and so on. On multiple occasions back in college, he’d had such a good time hanging out with the guys he invited back to his dorm that he flat out forgot to have sex with them. It was fine by him. He was a people person at heart.

Braig, on the other hand, seemed to have…not an _agenda_ , Demyx thought, knowing that only made him sound sketchier than he already was. But he always seemed to be working toward a goal, a “means to an end” kind of guy. Demyx was the total opposite: the things he did were enjoyable and worthwhile in and of themselves.

Still, it was fun, and Demyx couldn’t really complain. Plus, these were the only times he got to see Braig with his hair down. Demyx had actually caused that development himself a while back, when, in the heat of the moment, he had impulsively reached up and pulled on Braig’s ponytail, learning two things in the process: that Braig’s hair was, in fact, as slick as it looked, and that the man did _not_ like having his hair pulled. His exact words had been, “The _fuck_ was _that_?” as he smacked Demyx’s hand away.

Demyx tried to keep this boundary in mind, but the following week he was preoccupied again, the long hair becoming a Pandora’s box that he itched to open. When Braig finally noticed his inattentiveness and asked what the problem was, Demyx said, “I dunno, man. I really wanna yank on the ponytail. It’s just, like…right _there_.”

“What are you, a fucking cat? That’s insane.”

“I can’t explain it. It’s gonna distract me the whole time.”

With a rough sigh, Braig reached up and undid the ponytail, wincing as he scratched the back of his head and shook his hair loose. He snapped the hair tie around his wrist and gave Demyx an appraising look. “Better?”

Demyx stared up at him. “Uh… _yeah_ ,” he said. “Okay, new rule.”

“We had rules?”

“No more ponytails in bed. Agreed?”

“Fine by me.”

But the next time Braig showed up at Demyx’s door, with his hair already down, Demyx refused to let him inside. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Braig said, though he obliged and made himself comfortable on the threshold, resting his arm against the doorjamb, above his head. “ _Now_ what?”

“What’s the deal with this?” Demyx asked, gesturing to the messy black-and-gray cascade over Braig’s shoulders and down his back. Braig looked up at his watch.

“Figured I’d save some time, though it’s starting to look like that little plan backfired on me. You said the ponytail was distracting you, and I’m not a fan of scalp pain, so here,” he said, lifting a lock of his hair and letting it drop again. “Win-win.” He tried to step inside, but Demyx pushed him back with both hands, and Braig rolled his eye. “Come _on_.”

“Absolutely not. Put it back,” Demyx ordered, with a vague fiddling gesture. “I wanna take it down myself.”

“You want me to put my hair up, right now, _just_ so you can take it back down again in, what, twenty seconds?”

“Yep.”

Braig stared for a few seconds, and Demyx wondered if he was about to simply turn around and leave. But with another sigh, he fished a hair tie out of his pocket. “I want you to know,” he said, gathering his hair while Demyx grinned, “that you are _hands down_ the most high-maintenance hook-up I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, there you go,” Demyx said encouragingly as Braig muttered to himself and made sure all of his hair was swept back. He fastened the hair tie at the base of his skull and held his arms out at his sides, loosely and sarcastically.

“Tada. Can we get this show on the road now?” he said as Demyx dragged him into the apartment by the front of his leather jacket.

Some time after that, when they had a few minutes to kill, Braig had been the one to point out another idiosyncrasy, namely Demyx’s habit of always wearing some small article of clothing, usually one of his very 1980s wristbands. Demyx said that it was to keep the playing field level, pointing out that Braig never undressed fully, either. At Braig’s perplexed look, Demyx plucked at the string of his eyepatch, just above his eyebrow, and Braig barely stopped himself from flinching.

“It’s only fair,” he said lightly. “Of course, I’d be happy to take off mine if you wanna take off yours.”

He’d meant it as an obvious joke, but Braig gave him a steady, straightforward look. “You really wanna see what’s underneath here?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he knew Demyx didn’t want to see at all, and that he wanted Demyx to know that he knew.

Demyx looked up at him, a little nervous to hold his gaze, and equally nervous to look away. “Uh…no, not really,” he admitted, and Braig simply said, “Yeah, you don’t.”

Demyx had met all kinds of people in his relatively short life, but none of them had quite the dual nature that Braig did. He was always thoroughly, undeniably himself, but he existed in variations, one facet of his personality becoming more dominant than the other depending on his environment. Behind the bar, he was the fun, flirty, mildly annoying Braig who derived pure joy out of flustering Demyx—even flattering him at times. And then there was the other Braig: still fun, still flirty, but who occasionally treated Demyx like an impatient child that he was only humoring, at best. Demyx had scoffed at this realization, and when Braig asked what was up, Demyx said, “You’re such a Gemini.”

This afternoon, however, Demyx seemed to have caught Braig in a good mood. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to question it; it had granted him twenty extra minutes of pillow talk. Plus, he’d gotten Braig to follow through on his promise, however unofficial it had been. It took some reminding, and then some persuading, as Braig dropped his forehead to the mattress beside Demyx and said, “Come on, kiddo. I’m here to unwind, not give language classes.”

But with a little more wheedling and some literal poking and prodding from Demyx, Braig sighed and started swearing at him in fluent Italian. Demyx grinned blissfully while Braig alternated between kissing his neck and ranting, and when Braig said, “I’m cursing your entire family and your music career, just so you know,” Demyx only replied, “Cool, cool—just keep talking, man.”

Once he got the cursing out of his system, Braig started to speak more softly, even leaning down to indulge Demyx by whispering Italian phrases directly in his ear. Demyx shivered, over the moon, until he realized he recognized a few of the words, and then most of them, and by the time he pushed Braig away the man was already chuckling.

“Dude, are you just listing pasta dishes?”

“Wondered how long it’d take you to notice. Got through about half a menu, I’d say.” Demyx rolled his eyes and pulled him back down, and Braig returned readily, though he continued to laugh.

Demyx could have stood to hear something romantic, or at the very least sexual, but all Braig had really said was that he’d speak Italian, and technically he delivered. He was never that talkative in bed to begin with, so Demyx considered himself lucky to have gotten what he did and left it at that.

Afterward, Braig lay with one arm lazily slung around Demyx’s shoulders. The first few times he’d done this, Demyx had thought it was oddly affectionate for him, and a little cute. Over time, he started to sense that it was more like an animal instinct, as if Braig couldn’t lie on his back without keeping a constant hold on whoever was lying beside him, no matter how nonthreatening that person was.

Demyx also knew better than to initiate too much touching after the fact. He’d had his hand smacked away more than once when he tried to place it on Braig’s stomach or waist. He figured he was straying too close to too many vital organs, so Demyx usually just rested his hand on Braig’s chest instead, where nothing too important lived.

This afternoon, Demyx played with Braig’s hair, separating the gray streak at his temple from the rest and winding it into a spiral around his finger. Braig snorted when he realized what he was doing. “Quit messin’ with my hair.”

“It was a mess when you got here.”

“Oh, a wise guy, huh?” Braig nudged Demyx out of his usual spot in his own bed so he could steal the pillows for himself, though he compensated by letting Demyx lay his head on his shoulder. “Why do you keep fiddling with it, anyway? You tryin’ to tell me I look old?”

“No. Well, not because of your hair. I think your face has got it covered.” Demyx tilted his head away as Braig reached over to flick him. “But I think the grays make you look kinda cool, you know? I like them.”

“You should—most of ‘em are from you.” Demyx made a scrunchy, snarky sort of face, which Braig grabbed condescendingly by the chin, and laughed when Demyx swatted his hand away. “Heh, you keep me young, Dem,” he said, bringing his hand behind his head. “Even if I don’t look it anymore.”

He closed his eye, taking advantage of the spare minutes in his schedule to catch up on some micro-sleep. Demyx lay in silence for as long as he could, tracing random patterns on Braig’s chest, until he started tapping him to get his attention. Without opening his eye, Braig said, “Should I be worrying about a heart murmur, or did you want something?”

“Why don’t I have a nickname?”

“The hell are you talking about? I _just_ used it.”

“No, I mean…a _Braig_ nickname.” Braig opened his eye, giving him a peculiar look, and Demyx went on, “You know, like how everyone at Higanbana has one. Or way more. Lea’s gotta be up to ten by now.”

“Yeah, well, Lea’s easy. It’s almost not even fun with him.”

“I’m just saying. We’ve known each other for years, man. What’s the hold up?”

Braig shrugged. “I dunno. You’re a tricky one.”

“No I’m not! I’ve got so many gimmicks. You could make Billy Idol references, Baywatch references, the possibilities are endless.” Demyx leaned back on his elbows as Braig sat up and raked his hair into place, more or less. “It can’t be that hard, so…what? You don’t want to? I’m not special enough?”

“Big talk from someone who named his guitar ‘Arpeggio.’ That’s like calling your car, I dunno, ‘Parallel Park’ or something.”

“Hey,” Demyx said, shoving him. “Cut me some slack. I was nine when I got it.”

“Seriously? Hefty word for a nine-year-old.” Braig stretched his arms out in front of him, then over his head, fingers linked. “That’s pretty cool, actually.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed, and Demyx furrowed his brow.

“Thought you had some extra time today.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna spend it in the shower. Figure I’d better take advantage of your expensive hair crap while I’ve got access to it.”

“C’mon, there’s like forty minutes till you gotta be at the club. Do you seriously have to get up _right_ now? Or are you just that desperate to get out of this conversation?” Demyx teased. “The nickname king admits defeat?”

“No,” Braig said as he got up and headed for the bathroom. “Some of us just have to work for a living. Can’t spend the whole afternoon lounging in bed. But hey, you enjoy. Sounds nice.”

He shut the door, and Demyx waited until he heard the water running before he leaned back against the pillows with a frown. It _was_ his night off, but he felt like he’d earned it. He’d done a few lifeguarding shifts at the pool this week, which was especially busy now that the weather had started to warm up. He’d given some extra guitar lessons in the evenings, plus a small show at Seventh Heaven as well.

Not that Braig ever asked about any of that. He showed up, did his thing, used up some of Demyx’s favorite shampoo, and left. Never asked about Demyx’s life, but still found time to criticize. Typical.

When Braig emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed but squeezing some water out of his hair with a towel, Demyx was still lying in bed. Braig flung the towel over the back of a chair and searched the floor for his boots. “You comin’ in tonight?”

“Nah, it’s my night off.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

Braig located his boots and started lacing them up quickly. “All right, well, sounds like you’re pouting. So if I don’t see you at the club, then same time next week?”

Demyx shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, since I basically live in my bed, I guess I’ll be here, right?”

“For Christ’s sake, kid. Don’t get your mullet in a twist.”

Demyx refused to laugh on principle. Braig put his damp hair back into the ponytail and said, “I’ll see myself out,” as he walked the ten feet to the door. He opened it but paused over the threshold, keeping his hand on the doorknob as he took one last look at Demyx, still half-reclined against the pillows. “Catch you later, Ziggy Sitardust.”

Demyx stared blankly for a few seconds, then said, “God, that was _terrible_.” Braig gave him a flat look. “Seriously, you can do better. Keep working on it. We’ll see what you’ve got next week.”

With a little wave, Braig shut the door and turned to go, only to see a small group of people who had been politely waiting for him to move out of their way. He stepped back and let them filter through the narrow hall, and once they rounded the corner, he opened the door again. Demyx hadn’t left the bed, but he’d brought his guitar into it with him, strumming away. He paused, letting the last chord hover in the air as he gave Braig a quizzical look.

“Hey, your neighbors think I have no idea how to fuck now. So thanks for that.”

“Oh. No problem.”


	16. Are You Seeing Something I Cannot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Another flashback.)  
> Chapter includes: Ansem and Ienzo, plus a guest.

On the day after he met Ienzo, Even informed Ansem that he would consider taking the boy. A day after that, he followed up and said he _would_ take the boy. But aside from that major decision, not much had changed. Even was still convinced that he needed to restructure his entire way of life to make it suitable for a child. And Ienzo still wasn’t talking.

So Ansem kept Ienzo in his care for the time being, not wanting to rush Even along, but tactfully suggesting that maybe a six-month overhaul of every aspect of his existence was…a bit excessive, to say the least. After some persuasion and encouragement, Even whittled it down to two months, going so far as to suggest that he _might_ —mind you, _might_ —be able to move along faster, though he refused to promise anything. Ansem settled for that with good grace. When it came to Even, a promise to rush only guaranteed that he would take twice as long as he originally planned.

Besides, for all his relief that Ienzo would be settling into a new home soon, Ansem was glad to spend some extra time with the boy. Maybe it was the scientist in him, but watching Ienzo, observing his observations, was fascinating.

His knack for problem-solving was apparent from the start. Ansem began bringing the morning paper to work again, rekindling his habit of flipping through it over coffee while Ienzo conquered the puzzle section. After a few days, Ansem remembered why he had stopped reading the paper in the first place. While Ienzo lay on the carpet, solving one problem after another, Ansem sat at his desk, reading about problems that seemed to have no solutions in sight. Civil unrest in their otherwise quaint and peaceful town. Protests about the abysmal state of the Hollow Bastion ruins, which surely counted as an historic landmark by now. Black powder sales on the rise in neighboring cities. The dog fighting circuit in Traverse Town making a comeback. More often than not, Ansem skimmed the headlines, grimly folded the paper back up, and stuffed it into his desk while he finished his coffee and watched Ienzo’s progress with the word search.

It was still an odd situation, but everyone at the lab adjusted well to Ienzo’s presence, given how few of them (Ansem included) possessed any real experience in child care. His colleagues learned how to interact with Ienzo, more or less. They stopped offering him candy from the bowl at the reception desk. They greeted him without asking questions that would inevitably go unanswered. They let him poke around the communal areas and the safer workstations, only stepping in when he was at risk of getting too close to the tools or rifling through the painstakingly organized files.

Ansem tried to keep him occupied with puzzles, books, and occasionally music, but whenever he failed to provide something that would hold Ienzo’s attention, or when Ienzo simply grew tired of whatever he’d been provided, he took to exploring Ansem’s office. He opened drawers, reached for things on shelves, peeked under furniture to see if anything was hidden there, always finding some new corner or ledge or surface to investigate. He seemed to go off into his own world, or even his own dimension, walking alongside Ansem but on another plane, seeing things only visible to his eyes.

It was a coping mechanism, Ansem assumed—inspecting his surroundings while at the same time retreating inward, somehow both analytical and escapist. But Ienzo did seem at ease in Ansem’s space and in his company. He was inquisitive and exploratory, but well-behaved. He didn’t stray too far, and he tended to come as soon as Ansem called, perhaps because Ansem only called for the boy when it was absolutely necessary.

This morning was quiet, as most Friday mornings were at the research facility. They sat together and apart: Ansem in his ornate but well-worn office chair and Ienzo on the carpet with a book. The reasoning behind his reading selections was still a mystery to Ansem. Ienzo didn’t seem interested in cover designs, or daunted by the amount of words. He often picked books that Ansem would have passed over without a single thought. But once the boy was invested in them, Ansem would take a peek at their contents and realize that they were actually quite interesting. Sometimes he would even pick them up for his own enjoyment after Ienzo had gleaned all he could and moved on to the next one.

Today’s book was on the history of marine navigation, though Ienzo couldn’t have understood most of it. He paused on the pages with illustrations, as most children did, but he wasn’t taken in by them. They simply interrupted his flow, and he stopped to assess the diagrams of old ships and maps and nautical artifacts before continuing on to the text. Ansem smiled. A word was worth a thousand pictures to this child, it seemed.

“Ansem.”

He looked up, already recognizing the deep but somewhat gruff voice as Otsuka’s. The security officer stood off-center in the doorway, back straight, at attention, as Ansem said, “Good morning. Have you resolved the issue?”

“Yes, sir. Literal false alarm. Someone forgot to swipe their badge before entering the south wing.”

“Ah, well. I’ve been guilty of that myself from time to time. More recently than I’d care to admit,” Ansem added with a small laugh.

“I’ll see about getting a bigger sign put up. This is the fourth time so far this week. It’s not efficient for me to keep leaving my post for simple slip-ups.”

“Of course,” Ansem said. “Whatever you need to do.”

Otsuka nodded and started turning to leave when his gaze drifted across the room and landed on Ienzo, who was sitting up and staring at him, the book laid open and forgotten at his knees.

“Oh, how rude of me,” Ansem said, swiveling his chair to face them both. “Ienzo, this is Mr. Otsuka. I don’t know if you recall, but you two have met before.”

Otsuka waved and said hello, looking mildly uncomfortable under Ienzo’s gray, scrutinizing stare, and Ansem couldn’t blame him. His involvement in the accident, however heroic it had been, must have weighed on him, and Ansem couldn’t imagine how the man reconciled his rescuing of Ienzo with his inability to save the boy’s parents.

And while Ansem was charmed by the child’s quiet, intense curiosity, his almost diagnostic way of looking at the world, he understood how it would appear odd or off-putting to others. He was the kind of child you might expect to find in some Victorian haunted house story, Ansem thought, though he’d never say it.

Otsuka cleared his throat, turning back to Ansem and leaving Ienzo to continue his blank staring. “I heard Dr. Nozawa decided to take him in,” he said carefully, waiting for Ansem to confirm whether this wild rumor could possibly be true.

“Indeed,” Ansem said. “He should be ready within the coming months, if all goes well.”

“Hm.”

And again, despite Ansem’s respect and fondness for Even, he had to admit that he could see how his esteemed colleague might cause a person to say something like, “Hm,” with no further elaboration.

They were spared the task of figuring out how to continue the conversation when Otsuka’s radio beeped. He scowled as he unclipped it from his belt. “Go,” he said into it, while Ansem waited politely and patiently. “Ansem’s study. …south wing? Copy.” He returned the radio to his belt, barely withholding a groan. “Someday the people in this building will let me _know_ when they’re entering an area with restricted access. We can’t have eyes everywhere,” he said, speaking more to himself than Ansem, and heading down the hallway as he dismissed himself without a backward glance.

Ansem watched him until he disappeared around the corner, a sympathetic grimace pulling at his mouth. He knew that other colleagues bristled at Otsuka’s lack of social grace, but every time Ansem spoke to him, he seemed to be dealing with some security issue or another. It wasn’t an easy job, keeping track of everyone’s comings and goings, manning the security cameras, verifying that all property was in its assigned place at the end of the day. Despite the facility’s funding and access to state-of-the-art technology, the man was right: they simply couldn’t have eyes everywhere, at least not at all times.

Ansem looked back down and started when he saw Ienzo standing by his side, having crossed the room silently at some point in the last minute or so. Not wanting the boy to feel self-conscious, Ansem feigned more surprise than he felt, making his reaction seem comical. “Goodness, Ienzo,” he said, laying a hand over his chest. “I’ve had one minor heart attack in my life already. We’re going to have to tie a bell on you if you’re going to walk that quietly.”

Ienzo stood with one small hand on the arm of the chair and his gaze lingering on the empty doorway. Ansem placed his own hand back on his desk and said, “Do you remember Mr. Otsuka?” When Ienzo didn’t respond, not even nonverbally, Ansem went on. “It’s because of him that you’re here today. He’s been humble about it, of course, but we’re all very grateful to him.”

Ienzo continued to stare, and rather than try to come up with more things to say, Ansem fell silent, waiting for some kind of cue. Finally, Ienzo unfixed his gaze from the door and returned to his book, only to pick it up and bring it over to the desk. He set it back down on the floor, mere feet away from Ansem’s chair, seeming to want a closer proximity more than anything else.

As always, Ansem was happy to accommodate him, but as Ienzo settled back down and focused once more on the book, he frowned. He wished the boy weren’t so rattled. Hee’d been through significant trauma, of course, and Ansem knew it was likely that Ienzo associated that trauma with Otsuka himself. It was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped. Ansem knew better than anyone what a tricky thing memory could be. He could hardly blame either one of them for their discomfort in the presence of the other.

He let his musings guide him around without direction, not realizing how long he’d been spacing out until Ienzo placed his book on the desk, nudging it toward Ansem.

“Hmm?” he said, glancing at the open pages and wheeling his chair sideways to make room. “What is it, Ienzo?”

Ienzo stood beside Ansem and rose up on his toes, pressing his finger to one of the illustrations, his lip jutting out as he tried to make sense of it.

“Ah,” Ansem said, “the alidade?” Ienzo looked up at him, then down at the page again, while Ansem scanned the text for the word. He drew an invisible line beneath the caption with his finger, guiding Ienzo’s gaze, helping him match the letters to the sounds.

“It’s an old navigational instrument,” he said, reverting to his professor voice, which Ienzo always seemed to respond well to. “It measures distances and angles between two objects or points. Very helpful in marine travel, though it was also used in astronomy to measure the directions and distances between stars. The two are interconnected, of course—the sea and the stars.” He tapped the picture again, bringing Ienzo’s attention back to it. “Tools like this have helped people cross oceans, which contain the lowest points we’ve ever measured, and study stars, the highest things we can see.” Ansem chuckled, knowing he was close to pontificating, and that even Ienzo had his limits for how much education he would tolerate at one time. “I’ve always thought that the seas and the stars have more in common with each other than they do with what lies between them.”

Ienzo had been looking up at Ansem, trying his best to absorb what he was saying. But for all his intelligence and maturity, he was still a child, and he couldn’t quite grasp it. He looked down at the book again, and Ansem smiled at his effort. Ienzo was tenacious, undeterred by his lack of understanding. He seemed to thrive not on knowing, but on learning. Ansem would be curious to see where the boy’s studies eventually took him, knowing he would be both proud and honored if Ienzo’s path brought him back to this facility someday. A mind like his would be more than an asset.

And as he watched the boy, he noticed something new. Ienzo was studying the same page as before, but this time, he was fixed on the term “alidade,” scanning it over and over, mouthing the word slowly as he read it.

Ansem’s heart leapt. It was nothing more than a slight moving of lips, likely subconscious, and utterly silent.

But it was almost speech.


	17. Memories In Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes: Vanitas and Naminé.

It was a quiet, sunny day, the time of year when spring melted into summer so gently that you didn’t even feel it happen, and Vanitas was so anxious he thought he must be audibly buzzing like an insect. He stood beside Naminé with his photography portfolio clutched in his hand and waiting for her to open her apartment door.

He hoped she was anxious, too, just so he wouldn’t be the only one. And then he hoped she wasn’t. He didn’t want her to show him her art—let alone her home—out of obligation. But ever since he heard Ven mention her sketches, Vanitas couldn’t get them out of his head. He was surprised by how quickly his jealousy had turned into a simple desire to see the artwork for himself.

He’d tried to come up with the best way to ask her while they packed up his gallery at the end of the festival. But Naminé had beaten him to the punch, suggesting that they go to her apartment sometime for a kind of unofficial art show, him with his photos and her with her sketches and paintings. She’d seemed as nervous as he was, so distracted by trying to play it cool that she had nearly shut the travel case of photos right on his fingers, and only missing because he yanked his hands back in time.

But here they were now: Vanitas gripping that same travel case under his arm, and Naminé finally jamming the right key into the lock and opening the door. She ushered him in, and he stepped over the threshold carefully, wondering if he should take his shoes off. She didn’t say anything about it, so he took a few more cautious steps while she closed and re-locked the door behind them.

It was a small place. Aside from the living room Vanitas currently stood in, there was a tiny kitchen area, separated from the rest of the apartment by a narrow counter, and a bathroom off to the side. Across the room was another door, slightly ajar, which, through the process of elimination, had to have been her bedroom.

Naminé went to the window and opened it to let the breeze in. She swept aside a single sheer curtain, and Vanitas noticed a thick shade rolled up at the top. Along the sill was a row of small, potted plants, and Vanitas smiled, recognizing a few of them from back home after all.

She left the window, standing awkwardly in the center of her own apartment. “Well,” she said, “this is it.”

Vanitas nodded, still looking around, wanting to take his time. She had invited him into her space, and while he didn’t want to pry, he didn’t want to act like it wasn’t a big deal, either.

He made his way to a rather convenient bookshelf: nothing too personal, nothing that required poking around to examine. He took in the assortment of small, framed pieces of art, some set up on display, and some used as makeshift bookends. She had art books and a little bit of fiction, mostly titles that had been on the bestseller lists for the past couple years, Vanitas noticed. Some poetry, which he thought suited her. She had no movies, not even a TV. All of her furniture—at least in this room—looked comfortable but completely mismatched, as if she’d scooped each item up as she found it, likely on the side of the road or from secondhand stores.

“No pets, huh?” he asked, doing a final sweep of the room.

“The landlord doesn’t allow them. And…I’m not really fond of pets,” she added. “That always sounds horrible to say for some reason.”

“Nah, I like it. Never got the appeal, either.” He finally turned his attention back to her and held his portfolio out. “So…where can we sit?”

She offered him a seat on the couch and got to work clearing off the coffee table. While her apartment seemed tidy at first glance, it was definitely disorganized. Things were stacked neatly, but in odd places, like she never truly cleaned the clutter, simply clearing spaces as needed and relocating the mess to deal with later.

As she disappeared into the bedroom, telling him to get his photos set up while she grabbed her sketchbook, Vanitas tried to make himself comfortable. He flipped through his portfolio, looking for that last mistake he just _knew_ was in there. But he forced himself to go back to the first page, convincing himself it was fine as it was.

When Naminé returned, she sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, her legs tucked underneath her. Vanitas felt uncomfortable with her being on the floor while he sat on the couch, but he would have felt more awkward suddenly joining her after he’d already settled in where she told him to sit, so he stayed put.

What he’d expected was for him to leaf through the pages of his portfolio, trying to explain the process behind each photo while Naminé politely nodded and listened. But she had already slid the entire book to her end of the table, absorbed in its contents. He still tried to walk her through it, even as she set her own pace, lingering on what he’d always thought were the more boring shots. Eventually he let her examine the photos in peace, trusting that she’d speak up if she had a comment or question. She finally did when she reached the pictures of the Hollow Bastion ruins.

“Wow,” she said softly, gazing at the crumbling archways and withered turrets in awe. Vanitas tried not to look as smug as he felt; it had taken a lot of time and effort to get those shots, and he was glad someone was finally giving them the attention he thought they deserved.

“Yeah, I was psyched about how those came out. It was pretty overcast that day—wasn’t sure how good the lighting would be. I think it worked to my advantage, though.”

“I’ll say.” Naminé turned her attention from the castle itself to the dark clouds shrouding it. “Why didn’t you put these on display at the show? Not that the ones you picked were bad, of course. But these are so unique. I bet no one else had shots like this.”

“Yeah, uh…there’s a reason for that,” Vanitas said with a laugh. “It wasn’t exactly legal for me to take these. I had to do a lot of trespassing just to get on-site.” Naminé raised her eyebrows, and he held up his hands. “It’s not, like, top secret or anything. The castle’s just in such bad shape, it’s a huge safety hazard to even go down there.”

“Anything for the art, huh?”

“Basically. I mean, the shots turned out great. Probably wouldn’t go back, though.” He shrugged, and Naminé studied the images of Hollow Bastion in all its stormy, decrepit glory for a few moments longer before continuing on through the portfolio. She actually let out a brief laugh when she got to his older photos of the town cemetery.

“Spooky,” she said, even her untrained eye picking up on the overly dramatic angles and grim subject matter. Vanitas scratched the back of his head.

“Yeah,” he said, laughing along with her, surprised by how fun it was to allow her to share in his embarrassment. “Those were from a while back. I just always thought graveyards looked cool, y’know? Though I probably went a little overboard. Kinda makes me look like an edge lord now.”

“A bit,” Naminé agreed, though she smiled as she looked them over. She flipped the page, not commenting much, and Vanitas sat in silence with her, watching her assess the artwork, like he did back when they visited the museum.

After a while, his gaze drifted down to the carpet, where she had lain her sketchbook, propping it carelessly against a table leg. He moved from the couch to the floor, scooting to the other end of the coffee table. He started to leaf through the sketchbook, slowly enough for Naminé to notice and ask him to wait for her. She did notice, almost immediately, but aside from blushing at having someone else view her artwork, she didn’t react. As she continued to make her way through his portfolio, Vanitas got comfortable on the floor—more comfortable than he’d been on the couch—and took his time looking through her sketches.

The first and most obvious thing he picked up on was the amount of unfinished pictures. They weren’t just rough outlines that hadn’t been detailed yet, or sketches without color, but images that broke off halfway through, starting in one corner of the page and abruptly ending in the middle. They were as jarring as they were visually fascinating. Vanitas flipped slowly through the pages, lingering on each half-drawn picture and trying to imagine what the finished product would have looked like.

It wasn’t until he got to the first completed sketch that he finally commented out loud. “Whoa,” he said softly, scanning the page and taking in the colors. He recognized the location, thanks to the skate park and half of the clock tower visible at the edge of the page. But the warm palette of the famous Twilight Town sunset was nowhere to be seen, replaced with incongruent purples and greens and blues.

Naminé looked up to see which sketch had elicited this response. “Oh, yeah,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. Sometimes certain subjects just make me think of weird colors. Like ‘sunset.’ The word doesn’t fit with red and orange and yellow to me. It always makes me think of purple and green instead.” She smiled tentatively. “I know it’s a little odd. You wouldn’t even know what you were looking at if it weren’t for the landmarks.”

“I like it,” Vanitas said. “I think it looks cool. Almost sci-fi.” He took his time absorbing the details, his amber eyes always straying back to the green horizon. “It’s like a sunset on another world.”

Naminé gave him a pleasantly confused look, but as she returned to his photos, it became a genuine smile, one that almost grew into a grin. Vanitas turned the page with some reluctance, still captivated by that vibrant sunset but wanting to see what else her sketchbook had in store.

His comments seemed to open the floor for more observations, and as Naminé progressed through his work, she said, “You focus a lot on water.” She propped the portfolio up on the table to show him his own photos. “It’s never really _the_ focus,” she amended. “But it shows up often.”

“Yeah,” he said vacantly, scanning the pages and studying his work anew. “I guess it’s still kind of a novelty for me. I mean, we had water back home, obviously. We just…never would have used it like this. Recreationally, decoratively. Guess I found it interesting without realizing.” He analyzed the photos until Naminé laid the portfolio back down, seeing for the first time how often these types of pictures made an appearance. Runoff from the fountain courts. Puddles stretching along the curb. The wading pool, turned into a skating rink for winter. Even the standing water where the ruins of Hollow Bastion had taken root over the years.

Naminé had nearly reached the end of the portfolio, and Vanitas paused when he realized she was viewing the collection of photos he’d taken back in the desert. He kept his eyes on her sketchbook, unexpectedly self-conscious.

“Are these from your home?” she asked, clearly knowing the answer; she’d seen several of these photos at the show. But there were at least four times as many that she hadn’t seen yet, and she was absolutely transfixed. Vanitas craned his neck to see the portfolio, as if he hadn’t noticed which photos she was looking at until now.

“Oh, yeah,” he said offhandedly. “Had a lot of time to kill back then.”

“How long ago did you take them?”

“Probably…five years or so? I’d been photographing the desert ever since I got my hands on a camera, but most of my early work was trash. I definitely figured out the aperture and how to use filters and stuff by this point.”

“Did you develop these ones yourself, too?”

“I think so,” he said, starting to sense that she wasn’t asking about the pictures as much as she was asking about him. It occurred to Vanitas that he was opening up a window to his past—to his childhood—through these photos, and that Naminé seemed keen to look through it. “I was still working out the process back then. Kind of tricky in the desert. It’s hard to get hold of a room that’s light-proof _and_ ventilated. Plus, I messed up the fixer, so most of them are super yellow now.”

“It suits the pictures,” Naminé said. “I think it makes the colors look even stronger.” Her fingertips rested on the edge of the page like she wanted to reach out and touch the photos, or maybe reach through them to touch what they depicted.

For the first time since he came to Radiant Garden, and without warning, Vanitas felt genuinely homesick. And as quickly as that feeling came to him, he knew it wasn’t quite true. He had no desire to live in the desert again. What he wanted, he realized with alarming suddenness, was to be able to bring Naminé there and let her see it for herself. Whatever odd loyalty he had toward his place of birth, he never deluded himself into thinking it was anything more than a barren wasteland. It didn’t matter how beautiful he could make it look in photos—it was in actuality a place of boredom and blandness and dry, monotonous heat.

But with Naminé looking at the photos, her gaze sweeping over the dunes and the mesas, he realized he could stand to visit it at least once more, if only to see it for the first time again, through her eyes.

“I actually…” Naminé said, drawing his attention back to reality. “I have a cousin who lives in the tropics. On an island. Obviously that’s a very different environment, but I don’t know. The sun on the sand…it just always seemed nice to me.”

Vanitas smiled, enjoying this brief glimpse into her life just as she’d enjoyed a glimpse into his. He noticed her attention lingering on one particular photo, and before the idea even finished forming in his mind, he said, “Well, you can take one, if you want.”

Naminé looked up, almost startled. “What?”

He gestured to the portfolio. “You can have one, if you like them.”

“Oh, no,” she insisted. “I mean, yes, I think they’re lovely. But you should keep them. They’re of your home.”

“Believe me, I’m not exactly gonna forget what it looks like,” Vanitas laughed. “Spent more than enough time out there. Besides, I’ve got a million of them.” He gestured to the photos again, a little more pointedly. “Go on. Take your pick.”

Naminé hesitated before turning her focus back to the portfolio, flipping through the pages at the end of the book with reverent slowness. Finally, after careful deliberation, she slid a particularly red sunset photo out of its holder. She held it up to show Vanitas, as if seeking his approval.

“Good choice,” he said, glad she chose it, not because it was a photo he wouldn’t miss, but because it happened to be one of his favorites, too. Naminé smiled and looked down at the photo before giving him a quiet, “Thank you.”

She was withdrawing again, but Vanitas coaxed her back out by returning to the sketches, commenting on more of her unexpected color choices. Naminé seemed reluctant to discuss it at first, brushing it off as a silly quirk, but the more they talked, and the more Vanitas referred to it as an artistic style, the more engaged she became. Soon they were side by side on the floor, taking turns flipping through the sketchbook. Vanitas tossed his sweatshirt onto the couch as the warm, near-summer breeze filled the room, and he gratefully accepted Naminé’s offer of lemonade from the fridge.

They sat together, drinking, chatting, and even getting each other to laugh a little more. Naminé finally loosened up enough to discuss her own art process, how certain colors always seemed to go together in her mind no matter how much they supposedly clashed, or how certain words or sounds evoked certain hues. Eventually, Vanitas said, “Okay, how’s this? I’ll say a word, and you do a little sketch based on it.”

“What?” Naminé said, her light laughter matching the sound of ice clinking in her glass.

“Thirty seconds per sketch. It doesn’t even have to be _of_ anything. I just wanna see what colors you choose.”

Naminé hesitated for only a moment before agreeing, shy but excited to try such a unique exercise. She went to her room again to get her pencils, and Vanitas searched through her sketchbook for a blank page. Every sketch had the date written uniformly in the upper right corner, but the pages seemed to be chosen at random, and it took him a minute to find an empty one. But by the time Naminé returned, he’d lain the sketchbook out on the coffee table, ready to go. She set a shallow metal tin on the table and opened it up, digging through its contents for the colored pencils.

As quickly as her enthusiasm had spread to Vanitas, everything in him dropped when he saw the art supplies. With great care, Naminé laid out a familiar set of pencils, some of them half the length they should have been, others split down the center and bound by tape but. A couple were even held together with band-aids.

Vanitas felt a pang of guilt in a way he never had before. It wasn’t the feeling that came from being lectured by otherwise neglectful parents, or the shame that his grandfather instilled in him as a response to pretty much anything he did, but pure empathetic remorse. Why hadn’t she bought a new set of pencils, or even a handful of replacements? Was she that strapped for cash, or did she just have that much loyalty, even to inanimate art tools? Both possibilities made Vanitas feel even worse.

Naminé propped the sketchbook on her lap and lined the pencils up, looking eagerly at Vanitas. “Ready,” she said. “What’s the first word?”

“Yeah, uh…hey, before we start…” He nodded at the pencils, still too guilty to acknowledge them more directly. “I never really apologized for breaking those.”

Naminé blinked. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure these were the ones I broke. I was kind of preoccupied that day, but it was still a dick move. So, sorry about that. I can buy you some new ones to make up for it.”

It probably wasn’t the most elegant apology in history, but Vanitas felt it covered the important bases. But Naminé still stared blankly at him, and he shifted uncomfortably as he waited in suspense for her reply. He saw the exact moment when it clicked, and recollection spread over her face. “Oh,” she said, everything coming together in her mind. “That was _you_?”

“…uh…yeah?” Vanitas said. “I mean, it was Ven’s fault, if you wanna get technical…”

He meant it as a joke; he really didn’t have much of a problem with Ven anymore, and to his relief, Ven and his friends seemed to share that mentality. Still, it sounded a little mean, especially now that he knew Ven and Naminé were friends.

But she didn’t even seem to hear him, still piecing it together. “That _was_ you,” she said, distantly. Vanitas wasn’t sure if he should laugh or feel a little concerned.

“You didn’t recognize me the second time we met?” he asked, digging for his phone and showing the back of it to Naminé. “I’ve still got some of your paint on my phone.” At this, Naminé returned to the present, looking at the faint purple smudge in disbelief and embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hijacking his apology. “I didn’t even realize. I must have been distracted that day; I was probably in a hurry, too.”

“Yeah, you seemed like it,” Vanitas said, hoping he sounded like he was agreeing with her rather than judging. He recalled their second meeting, wondering if she would have been as willing to have lunch with him if she had recognized him as the guy who bumped into her and wrecked her art supplies.

He offered once more to pay her back, or just replace the supplies himself. She insisted that he didn’t need to and drew his attention back to the game they’d prepared, but as he said, “All right…‘seashell,’” and saw her reach for the taped up orange pencil, he felt that twinge of guilt setting in again.

After a few rounds of their game, however, the tension eased away. Even when one of the pencils fell apart in Naminé grip, the tape having come loose over the past couple months, they both managed to laugh it off. They filled up nearly three pages of small, oddly-colored drawings before the sun slanted through the window, hitting Vanitas’s eyes and making him wonder what time it was.

“Ah, shoot,” he said as he checked his phone. “I should head out. My grandfather’s expecting me back in half an hour.”

“Oh,” Naminé said, sounding disappointed, which Vanitas felt oddly flattered by. “All right. I hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

“Nah, you’re good,” he said, finishing his lemonade and taking her empty glass as well as he stood up. “Besides, it was cool to get a behind-the-scenes look at the artist at work. Those sketches turned out pretty nice. You should do more stuff like that.”

“Yeah,” she said shyly, smiling down at the collection of portraits decorating her sketchbook, as small and mismatched as charms on a bracelet. “Maybe I will.”

Vanitas brought the glasses to the kitchen sink and asked if he could use the bathroom before he left. She pointed it out to him, as if anyone could need directions in such a small apartment. When he returned, she had already packed up his portfolio and was offering him his sweatshirt. She thanked him for coming over, to which he replied that it was no problem—he’d wanted to see her art, after all. With a final apology for stepping on her pencils, which Naminé kindly but firmly waved away, Vanitas tucked his portfolio under his arm and left, winding his way through the narrow halls of her apartment complex until he was outside again.

On his way back to campus, he took a deep breath of fresh air and let it out audibly. Traces of sunlight still bathed the town, but it was getting cooler, and he stuffed his free hand into his sweatshirt pocket to keep warm. He frowned as his finger nudged a sharp corner, which, after a brief inspection, he realized was a folded piece of paper. He fished it out of his pocket and made sure he moved to the edge of the sidewalk before he stopped walking this time.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised to see a purple and green sunset when he unfolded the paper. He felt that guilty twinge again; did she think she owed him for the photo he let her keep, one sunset in exchange for another? But the feeling passed as he rolled the afternoon over in his head and decided that, no, she hadn’t felt obligated. She’d noticed his fixation on this sketch just as he’d noticed her interest in the photos of his home, each of them wanting to share something with the other.

He looked at the real sunset above him, lit in pink and yellow, and then back down at the sketch, its exact opposite on the color wheel in green and violet. How fitting, he thought, to be looking at an inverted sky, as he felt like his entire world was slowly turning upside-down.


	18. I Almost Forgot How To Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aqua-centric chapter that also includes Terra and Ven, a Higanbana guest, and some Final Fantasy cameos.

Aqua had always had a knack for sports that required a good center of gravity. She shone on the balance beams, doing handstands, mastering the toughest yoga poses, and pirouetting like no other in dance class. She rarely lost her footing on the climbing wall, and she had a light but lethal touch in fencing, retreating and advancing with swift, careful steps.

Which made it all the more frustrating that now, in her early twenties, she suddenly felt off-balance. She’d spent the past few months plowing through her schoolwork and charging headlong into the responsibility of caring for Ven, promising herself that once summer arrived, she’d finally relax. But with summer just around the corner, she felt tense and anxious for reasons she could no longer explain.

The past afternoon hadn’t helped one bit. She tried making suggestions for dinner, but Ven and Terra had already eaten a late lunch. She started complaining about Vanitas, who she’d seen in town the other day, but neither one of them would join or even indulge her. They simply let her rant until Ven managed to tear his attention away from their video game to say, “Oh, yeah…I dunno, we’re kinda cool with each other now.” When Aqua wondered not only how this development had happened but also why no one had thought to inform her, Terra backed Ven up, saying, “Yeah, we’re not exactly shoulder buddies with the guy, but he’s all right.”

It bothered Aqua, and it bothered her that it bothered her. As relieved as she was to hear that Ven’s bullying problem had apparently resolved itself, it only increased the feeling that everything in her life was merely swirling around her, immune to her influence. And now, with Ven becoming more self-sufficient and without the distraction of schoolwork, she couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to be doing, or where she was supposed to be spending her time.

Well. She knew where she could spend her time. What she wanted was a viable excuse not to work up her courage and _go_ there.

So Friday afternoon found her halfway down the block from her apartment, at Highwind’s. The setting didn’t exactly agree with her, to say nothing of the bartender, but it was close to home, and that was something. Familiarity seemed to be in short supply these days, and she was willing to take it wherever she could find it.

She found a little more familiarity than she expected. There was no chatter or background noise, as she was Cid’s only customer, and it didn’t take her long to identify the song that drifted out of the old speakers as one from Terra’s playlist. He must have been coming here to unwind, too, or maybe the walls of their apartment building were thinner than they realized. Either way, Aqua sipped her drink and listened to The Shins whine on and on about some incomprehensible thing or another. “You cannot wrestle a dove.” Aqua shook her head, trying to empty it of thoughts. _What’s that even supposed to mean_? she wondered. _Ridiculous_.

“You wanna jump and dance—”

_No, I want to sit and drink._

“But you sat on your hands, and lost your only chance…”

She sipped her drink again. _Hmm_.

“Go back to your hometown, get your feet on the ground, and stop—”

“Hey, Cid,” she called. “Did you ever think you might get more than one customer at a time if you played better music?”

“This was _your_ friend’s suggestion,” Cid shot back. “I like it. S’got a good country vibe. If you got a problem, take it up with him, or better yet, find another place to sit your ass down and complain. I don’t need lip from someone who’s spent the whole afternoon nursin’—wait, lemme count ‘em,” he said, pretending to search for a receipt while Aqua stared at him balefully. “Oh, yeah. _One_ mint julep.”

Aqua waited until his back was turned before she stuck her tongue out, though she quickly resumed sipping her drink and spacing out, staring at nothing and thinking about everything. Cid was right, as usual, however abrasively he phrased it. There were other venues that were more her speed—or closer to what her speed _used_ to be, anyway. These days she felt herself rattling inside, like a burnt-out bulb. She’d have to actively psych herself up just to go to a club again, especially the ones she genuinely wanted to go to, where Terra wasn’t exactly an effective wingman. And even if she _did_ manage to summon the energy for a night out, there was no guarantee of success. Overall, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

She sat alone and in silence for another five minutes before the old wooden door scraped open behind her, folding back the frayed corner of the welcome mat. She didn’t bother turning around to see what sad loner had joined her for an afternoon drink, and she even considered letting them trade places with her so she could seek out better sights. But she only had a moment to weigh this option before a bright, familiar voice said, “Oh, no way. _Aqua_?”

She matched the face to the voice before she laid eyes on it, already delightedly surprised as she turned in her chair and said, “Hey, Demyx. Long time no see.” She didn’t bother standing to greet him, but she grinned at his friendly smile, which was just as infectious as she remembered.

“No kidding,” he said, holding his hand out for a fist-bump as he approached. “Can’t believe we can go so long without crossing paths in a town this small.”

“ _I_ can’t believe we’re finally crossing paths at Highwind’s,” Aqua replied. “Please tell me this isn’t one of your regular spots.”

“No, no, definitely not,” Demyx reassured her, though he backtracked when he noticed Cid giving him a surly look from behind the bar. “I mean, uh. You know me. I like to hop around. Hey, Cid, you’re looking well,” he said with a little wave, while Cid, at the peak of his friendliness, grunted. Aqua smiled faintly as Demyx went to the bar, chatting with Cid all the while as if they were old friends rather than a gregarious twenty-something and a middle-aged curmudgeon. Demyx slid a dollar into the tip jar when Cid wasn’t looking, even though all he’d gotten was a glass of water, and he gestured to one of the chairs at Aqua’s table as he made his way back to her.

“Mind if I join you? It’s so hard to find an empty seat in this place.”

Aqua snorted, nudging the chair away from the table with her foot. She crossed her ankles on another chair across the table while Demyx settled in. “So, what brings _you_ to Highwind’s?” he asked. “This isn’t your usual haunt, is it?”

“Nah, it’s just convenient. I live a few doors down. Aside from my roommates, this is the closest thing I have to entertainment on this block.”

“Nice,” Demyx laughed, while Aqua picked at the sprig of mint sticking out of her glass.

“How about you?” she asked. “Finally sick of that club you always go to?”

“Nah. I mean, it can be a little much, even for me. I need a breather, you know? Plus, the people are getting on my nerves lately.”

“I thought your friends worked there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Demyx said, “most of the guys are great. Just some people, I guess. You can only take them in small doses. I’m sure they’d say the same thing about me,” he added, laughing good-naturedly. “Anyway, it’s nice to get a change of scenery. I like to stay on top of the night life in this town. Not that Highwind’s is known for its night life. Or its day life.”

“Well, I’m sure Cid wouldn’t object to you livening the place up. Look, he’s even got a piano,” Aqua said, pointing to an old upright in a forgotten corner of the bar. “I doubt it works, though. It’s probably just for decoration, and even then, I’m meeting it more than halfway.”

“Hey now,” Demyx said as he stood up for a better look. “That thing looks like an antique.” He wandered across the room to check it out, carefully lifting the fallboard to test the keys. He tapped out a few jaunty chords, wrinkling his nose at how out of tune it was. “Well, it’s got character. Guess that comes with the territory in this place.” He wiped his hands on his jeans to rid them of the dust before testing a few scales. “You play at all?”

Aqua shrugged. “I can play about a dozen instruments passably well,” she said. “Dance is more my thing.” She bobbed her head along as Demyx improvised a little ditty, until Cid emerged from the back to see who was causing the racket. He loosened up a bit when he saw that it was only Demyx, who stopped playing but didn’t take his hands off the keys.

“You’re cool with this, right?” he asked, and Cid waved his hand dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Not like you’re disturbing the other customers or anything. Just mind the rules.”

“What…?” Demyx said, and he followed Cid’s pointing finger to a notecard that he’d completely overlooked, perched atop the piano and aggressively stating “NO RAGTIME.”

“…huh,” Demyx said. In spite of Cid’s cooperation, he lowered the fallboard again and returned to the table. Aqua squinted across the room at the little sign.

“No ragtime?” she said. “What’s the story there?”

“Not much of a story,” Cid said. “Some one-eyed creep came in here a while back and offered to provide some free entertainment, and against my better judgment, I said sure. Next thing you know, my bar’s one swinging door away from turnin’ into a goddamn saloon.”

“Not to burst your bubble, Cid, but if a little music is all it takes to turn your bar into a saloon, it’s way too close to a saloon to begin with,” Aqua said. She turned to Demyx, expecting his agreement, and she instead saw him with his glass in his hand, already half-empty as he steadily but nervously chugged his water. His gaze was fixed across the room, away from both her and the piano.

“Dem, _no_ ,” she said, snatching the water away from him, spilling a bit onto the table and probably his lap in the process. “You’ve got to find an outlet for your awkwardness that doesn’t look completely stupid. Why are you even…?” She trailed off as he wiped his mouth dry, still avoiding eye contact, and she let her gaze drift back to the piano, silently replaying the story Cid had just told them. “Oh, no,” she said, slowly looking back at Demyx. “That guy you were seeing?”

“ _Am_ seeing,” Demyx corrected, to Aqua’s surprise. “I mean…kind of. But yeah, definitely him. It totally fits his profile.”

“That’s been going on for a while, hasn’t it?” she asked, trying to remember when Demyx had first mentioned the guy to her. “You two were hooking up back when we were lifeguarding together, and that was, like…at least a year ago.” Demyx half-shrugged, half-nodded, and Aqua raised her eyebrows. “Wow. So, are you guys an item by now, or what?”

“Nah. That’s not really his style. Or mine, I guess. Just having fun, y’know?” He traced his finger around the table, trying to draw patterns with the water that had spilled. “He’s the one I needed a break from at Higanbana, though, so…yeah. Fun in doses.”

“Hey, whatever works,” Aqua said. “I can’t remember the last time I really shut my brain off and had fun.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not gonna find it here,” Demyx said, lowering his voice even though Cid had strayed off to the back again. “Have you hit up any other clubs lately? I mean, Higanbana’s a blast, but even I need to switch it up once in a while. My buddies act like I have no job security because I’m just a guest performer, but I’ve got a few different places I frequent.”

Aqua poked at her drink with her straw, stirring the last traces of ice until they melted. “Yeah, well, I think you guys have more options than I do around here. I’m not quite desperate enough to hit up one of the dive bars on Esuna Ave.”

“Oh, come on,” Demyx said, not cutting her any slack with her pity party. “Like those are your only options. Besides, they’re not even all that bad.”

“Listen to you,” Aqua said with a disbelieving laugh, lifting her foot off the chair to nudge him with it. “When did you become an expert on the lesbian bars in this town?”

“Bet I visit them more than you do,” Demyx shot back. “I probably do a show at Seventh Heaven around once a month at this point.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No way, man. I mean, that’s what you get when you’ve known all the managers and owners of these places since grade school. Isa puts me on the schedule at Higanbana pretty much whenever I want, and Tifa hooks me up on a regular basis at good ol’ 7H.”

“…Tifa Lockheart,” Aqua said, and Demyx nodded. “No, Tifa _Lockheart_. You’ve known Tifa Lockheart since _grade school_?”

“Yeah, we go way back,” Demyx said, in the mood for reminiscing while Aqua was more in the mood for interrogation. “We were classmates since, like, second grade, but I didn’t talk to her much until middle school. My friends—the guys I work with at Higanbana—they dared me to go act like a total dumbass in front of her because they knew I had this awkward kid crush on her. The thing is, I was definitely gonna make a dumbass of myself anyway, so the joke’s on them. But that was basically when we became friends. She was great—didn’t care at all that I was this stringy little goon. I mean, she didn’t hold back with the teasing, but you just got the sense that she really wanted to talk to you and be your friend, you know? Just a really good vibe about her.”

He looked at Aqua and noticed the small smile on her face, half in response to what he was telling her, but half to herself, in response to whatever was on her mind. A switch tripped in Demyx’s brain when Aqua realized that she was being watched and tried to tone down her smile. “What?” she asked, and Demyx grinned.

“Oh my god. You have a crush on Tifa.”

“No shit,” Aqua said immediately, only making him grin more.

“That’s _awesome_ ,” he said. “Man, I can’t believe this. She was so into you for a while. I always wondered why nothing ever happened.”

“…what.”

“Yeah, I mean, why do you think she was always coming to the pool during your shifts?”

“Because the universe loves to taunt me?”

“Geez, you’re a cynic. She was trying to get your attention.”

“Okay, first of all: she did. And secondly, _why_ wouldn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I didn’t know you liked her! You hardly even spoke to her. She said you didn’t pick up on her signals, or if you did, then you clearly weren’t interested. After a while, she gave up.”

“Of _course_ I was interested. Why do you think I took the lifeguarding job in the first place?”

“I dunno, dude! Your name is _Aqua_!”

Aqua looked like she wanted to have a good retort for that, but all that came out was a frustrated groan as she folded her arms on the table and dropped her head on them. Just as quickly, she sat up again, lifting her arms and brushing the crumbs off them. “Okay, seriously. Do these tables _ever_ get cleaned?”

Demyx watched her viciously swipe at her forearms, a little wary of her temper but sympathetic to her plight. “Hey, look,” he said as she flicked stray crumbs off her lap. “It just so happens I’ve got a gig at Seventh Heaven tonight. Wanna swing by? It’d be cool to see you in the crowd for once. And I know I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

“I don’t know,” Aqua said, smoothing out her clothes and trying to come up with an excuse out of sheer reflex. “Maybe.”

“I’m not saying you have to go and make your move or anything. But you look like you could use a social defibrilator. It’s a good place to hang out, at the very least.” Demyx shrugged. “Just keep it in mind?”

 

Aqua paused, then nodded, leaving it ambiguous how much she was agreeing to. Demyx seemed satisfied with that, and he held his hand out politely for his glass, which Aqua finally returned to him. He finished his water much more calmly than before, then said, “All right, I gotta split. Hopefully I’ll see you there, but if not, gimme a call. We should catch up for real sometime soon. Preferably in a place where Cid isn’t giving me the hairy eyeball.”

“Sure thing,” Aqua laughed. She waved at Demyx as he left, and she continued to sit by herself for a few more minutes, stirring her now room-temperature drink in contemplation. Abruptly, she raised her glass and finished the drink in one swig. She wrangled a decent tip out of her pocket for Cid and even swept the crumbs off the table for him, dumping them in the trash on her way out the door.

* * *

Terra and Ven were out when Aqua got back to the apartment, which was fine by her. She intended to spend a very uncharacteristic half hour trying on outfits in front of the mirror, and it would be a whole lot easier without the peanut gallery asking her what on earth she was doing.

The first thing she came to terms with was that she was in desperate need of a haircut, and probably had been for a while. The second thing was that her most flattering outfit consisted of a plain tank top, a snug but faded pair of jeans, and her old sneakers. She could definitely stand to wash her face and apply some moisturizer, but she simply scrubbed it with cold water, bringing splotches of pink to her skin that would hopefully fade before she left the apartment, and if they didn’t, well, then they didn’t. She bent over and scratched her dry hair, mussing it out of place and then back into place, more or less.

She regarded her reflection critically, feeling like it didn’t look any different from the start of this whole process. But when Terra and Ven arrived home and crossed paths with her in the hallway, Terra said, “Hey, you going out?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aqua said with a small fist-pump, both answering his question and celebrating her success. “I _am_ going out. What tipped you off? Did I nail the ‘going out’ look?”

“Nah, you just look really nervous right now. Are you going back to Seventh Heaven or something?”

“What’s Seventh Heaven?” Ven asked, while Aqua glared at Terra. “Can we go?”

“It’s a lesbian bar,” Aqua said. “So…no.”

“It’s for the best, Ven,” Terra said. “You haven’t seen Aqua try to flirt before. It’s…well, it’s something to behold. I’m never sure who I’m supposed to be more embarrassed for.”

“Hey, fuck you, too,” Aqua said. “And for your information, yes, I _am_ going back to Seventh Heaven. I’m going to ask Tifa Lockheart out or die trying.”

“Good!” Terra said. “Seriously, I’m being an asshole. Don’t let me discourage you. Go, have fun. You deserve it.”

“Yeah?” Aqua said, switching from cursing at Terra to seeking his support so fast that it was hard for Ven to keep up, even after all the time he’d spent with them over the past few months. “Okay, real quick: any last-minute suggestions?”

“I’ve been telling you to get your hair cut for about two months,” Terra said. “But I guess that doesn’t help much now.”

“Maybe you could wear boots instead?” Ven offered, though he quickly added, “I mean, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I just think boots would look cooler.”

“Boots _would_ look cooler,” Aqua agreed, as if this were some deep epiphany that only Ven’s unbiased insight could reveal. “Good call. Give me two seconds.”

She darted back down the hall to her room, and Ven laughed at the sight. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this before.”

“Yeah,” Terra said, with equal parts embarrassment and affection. “You know, I’ve literally seen her wake up from a nap, roll off the couch, and be out the door in four minutes to meet someone at a coffee shop. Once she has the date, she’s fine. It’s _getting_ there that’s—hey!” he said as Aqua hopped back down the hallway, lacing up her second boot. “Lookin’ sharp, blue jay.”

“Ven, you’re a lifesaver,” Aqua said, cinching the laces tight against her shin. She tapped her foot on the floor to even out the tension, then stood in the doorway with her arms out. “Okay. Good to go?”

“Good to go,” Terra said, giving her a thumbs-up. “You look great. If I were a woman, I’d totally give you my number.”

“Uh…me too?” Ven said, trying to figure out how far he should follow Terra’s lead. “Unless that’s weird.”

“…it’s pretty weird,” Aqua said, regarding the pair of them, standing side by side, unconditionally supportive but not quite hitting the mark. “God, I need more female friends. But thanks, guys. That was sweet. Odd, though,” she added, furrowing her brow. “Very odd.”

“All right, all right,” Terra said, ushering her out the door. “Get outta here, put us out of your mind, and go break some hearts on the dance floor, yeah? And go easy on that one move with the kicks.”

“Wait, which move with the kicks? I have a lot of moves with—” But Terra had already shut the door, leaving Aqua to huff in frustration as she trudged down the stairs to the street.

* * *

The sunset was strangely dark that evening, skipping the fiery palette and going straight from daylight to a purple dusk. It matched the simple neon sign of Seventh Heaven, softly buzzing in the twilit air. Aqua stood directly below it, reiterating to herself that she could _really_ use some more female friends. Terra was a solid wingman, in general, but ever since they moved to Radiant Garden, Seventh Heaven was territory that Aqua had to chart alone. She was never one to shy away from taking the lead, but it was always a little easier with backup.

She was considering going to yet another bar for one more drink, just to muster up some courage, when she heard footsteps approaching from behind. Quickly. Too quickly for her to get out of the way before someone leaned their full weight against her back, wrapping a skinny arm around her neck.

“ _What_ the—” Aqua began, barely resisting the urge to fling the assailant over her head and onto the pavement. And a good thing, too, as she got a look at the heavily tattooed arm and realized there was only one person both exuberant enough to tackle her with a hug and stealthy enough to do it by surprise. “Yuffie?”

Aqua only had to turn her head a few inches to be greeted by Yuffie’s broad grin, her chin resting on Aqua’s shoulder. “The one and only,” she said as Aqua gently unhooked her arm and took a step back to get a proper look at her. The Hawaiian print shorts, the tank top with superfluous mesh lining underneath, and fingerless gloves that were totally at odds with the weather this time of year. She looked utterly ridiculous, and Aqua was beyond relieved to see her.

“Been a while, huh?” Yuffie said, nodding toward the door. “You heading inside?”

“I was about to, but I can hang out here for a bit if you want to catch up. I could use an excuse to avoid my discomfort zone,” Aqua laughed.

“Well, you won’t find one here. I’m goin’ in.”

“Uh, no, you’re not? It’s eighteen and up.”

“So am I.”

“…no you’re not,” Aqua repeated flatly, doubting herself even as she said it. Yuffie rolled her eyes.

“You’re in college, egghead. Do the math.”

Aqua did do the math, and then she did it again, because there was no way Yuffie wasn’t still that precocious thirteen-year-old who had leaned on the arm of the chair for the entire duration of Aqua’s first tattoo, questioning her design choice (a blue Wayfinder on the back of her shoulder—which, incidentally, was part of the reason why Aqua had chosen to wear a tank top this evening). There was no way she wasn’t still that talkative, nosy middle-schooler who had grated on Aqua’s every nerve, and yet somewhere down the line became genuinely endearing. There was no way that much time had passed without Aqua realizing it.

But it had, of course, and Aqua knew it. She was just a little tired of getting reminders.

But she smiled, because Yuffie was beaming, supremely proud of her ascent to the legal drinking age. “Well, damn,” Aqua said, resting a hand on her hip and looking Yuffie over again. “When on earth did you become an adult?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Oh, shit. Happy birthday. Here, first round’s on me. Consider it a belated present.”

“Done deal,” Yuffie said. “Now c’mon, let’s go already. Night’s not getting any younger, and neither are we, right?”

“Okay, you’re not allowed to joke about age. You’re gonna depress the hell out of me.”

But Yuffie waved her comments aside, impatiently holding the door open, and Aqua, having finally found her backup, strode confidently over the threshold.

And immediately tried to leave again. Yuffie, not expecting the sudden stop, almost knocked herself backward as she walked straight into Aqua.

“Hey! What’s the hold up?” Yuffie stood on her toes to try and see over Aqua’s shoulder, then ducked back down and peered past her arm, doing her best to follow her gaze through the crowd. “You gawking at Lockheart again?”

Across the floor, Tifa stood behind the counter, mixing drinks, chatting with regulars, and manning the veritable cornucopia of a tip jar. “What the _hell_ is she doing at the bar?” Aqua wanted to know. Yuffie shrugged.

“I’unno. Bartending, probably? She can do what she wants. She owns the place.”

“Exactly. Why is she working the bar at her own club?”

“C’mon, you know they’re always short-handed here. The men practically run this town.”

“Then it should be _easier_ to find help here. All the lesbians flock to this place out of necessity.”

“You’re _way_ overthinking this, as usual. She’s working the bar because it’s the best spot in the whole joint,” Yuffie laughed. “Why are you even complaining? You have a built-in reason to chat her up now. Just go get us some drinks, all right? I’m gonna go find a table. See ya in a few.”

And before Aqua could snatch at her sleeveless hoodie, Yuffie was gone. “Damn it,” Aqua muttered to herself, knowing that Yuffie was completely right, that this was the perfect opportunity to go talk to Tifa.

Which meant that if she _didn’t_ , it was simply because she was just that much of a coward after all.

With an already weary sigh, Aqua began the long and yet far too short trek to the bar, reminding herself that she _did_ promise to buy Yuffie a drink, though the girl hadn’t even told Aqua what she wanted. _That little punk_ , Aqua thought, with genuine fondness and just as genuine annoyance. _She really hasn’t changed_.

But she quit complaining, replacing it with a little psych-up speech as her feet carried her across the room. _Come on. Demyx said she liked you, too. But that was over a year ago. He also said she gave up. She could have a girlfriend now. She’s probably had several girlfriends by now. Demyx didn’t mention any, but holy shit, you’re still overthinking it. Just_ go.

She arrived at the bar with as much confidence as she could muster, but Tifa was busy filling other orders, and Aqua had to wait a few minutes just to be noticed. When Tifa’s gaze finally landed on her, Aqua thought her eyes lit up a bit, though it was probably just in recognition. Aqua did used to come here, back when she first started college. She could’ve been a regular by now if she hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth to focus on her studies.

But Tifa smiled at her, almost beaming, though she greeted everyone that way. _No wonder we all have crushes on her_ , Aqua thought, musing that even Demyx sounded like he still carried a bit of a torch for her.

“Hey,” Tifa said, moving closer to the counter so she could be heard over the din of the club. “Haven’t seen you around here for a while. Aqua, right?”

“Right,” Aqua said, ninety percent sure that was her name. Tifa gestured to her hair.

“It’s the blue,” she said with a little laugh. “Mnemonic device, I guess.”

 _You’re_ not _blushing_ , Aqua insisted, trying to bend reality to her will. _She didn’t say she likes your hair, just that she remembers it. Keep it together_. “I’ve been meaning to come by. School’s just been pretty crazy.”

“I’ll bet. Hopefully you can swing by more often, now that summer’s here. With all the tourists coming around, it’ll be nice to see a familiar face.”

Aqua tried to think of something clever or even charming to say in response, but nothing came to mind other than a bland, “Yeah, definitely.” Tifa, ever the professional, took it in stride and carried the conversation for both of them.

“Well, what can I get you? Wait, don’t tell me,” she said, and Aqua closed her mouth before she could give her order. Tifa shut her eyes, hand raised as if she were about to grab the answer out of the air, and Aqua felt a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Doubleflight,” Tifa announced, opening her eyes for the verdict.

“Man, you’re good,” Aqua said, and Tifa shrugged nonchalantly, getting to work on the drink.

“This is what I do,” she said. “Plus, it’s a pretty unique order. I don’t think it’s even on the menu anymore.”

“Well, call it a hidden treasure,” Aqua said, recalling how long it took to make the drink, and wishing she’d prepared conversational cue cards. She watched Tifa for a moment, and then, not wanting to stare, let her gaze drift aimlessly around the club until she heard the clash of ice in the shaker as Tifa got ready to pour.

“Here you go,” she said, wedging a lime on the rim of the glass and handing it over. “Let me know if I screwed up, yeah? It’s been a while since I made one of these.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Aqua said, raising the glass as a thank-you. She was just about to take a sip when she suddenly lowered the drink again. “Sorry,” she said before Tifa could even put the shaker down, “could you make that two Doubleflights? A Quadrupleflight, I guess,” she added with a little laugh, simply awash in self-loathing.

“Oh. Uh, sure. No problem,” Tifa said. “You wanna start a tab?”

Aqua paused, already reaching for her wallet. She hadn’t planned to drink much tonight, but then again, it _was_ Yuffie’s birthday. Sort of. And Terra did tell her to have fun. “Sure,” she said, “why not?” She grabbed both drinks and thanked Tifa, who nodded before moving on to the next customer.

It took a few minutes of walking around like a geek with a drink in each hand, but Aqua finally found Yuffie sitting at a small table by herself. She felt guilty for making her wait, until Yuffie finally noticed her and said, “Wow, where’ve you been? Does it always take you that long to strike out?”

Aqua put Yuffie’s glass down in front of her, and Yuffie observed the offering skeptically. “What the hell is this?”

“A Doubleflight,” Aqua said simply. “You’re gonna hate it. Happy birthday.”

Yuffie crinkled her nose, but to her credit, she gave the drink an honest try. After a few sips, she formed her conclusion. “Well, this is terrible,” she said, while Aqua continued to enjoy hers. “Why’s it so bitter?”

“No sugar.”

“ _God_ ,” Yuffie said, biting into the lime wedge to refresh her palate. “It’s like drinking a glass of Listerine. Seriously, how many women are you planning to make out with tonight?”

“It’s my drink,” Aqua said. “If you’d been drinking for longer than three weeks, you’d have your own, too.”

“First of all, I’ve been drinking for _way_ longer than three weeks.”

Aqua, with her glass still in hand, put her index fingers in her ears, singing, “Criminal justice major, la la la, not listening.”

“Secondly,” Yuffie said, waiting until Aqua lowered her hands to ensure she would hear it, “‘your drink’ is just a crutch. It’s like you’re broadcasting to the whole world, ‘Hey, I want everyone to think I know how to have fun, but dear god, _please_ don’t make me try anything new or I’ll have a meltdown and ruin everyone’s night.’”

“…that’s _insanely_ harsh, Yuffie,” Aqua said, and her younger companion shrugged.

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em,” she said, taking another sip of the Doubleflight only to grimace again. Despite Yuffie’s ruthless condemnation of her, Aqua couldn’t help smiling.

They spent some time catching up, astounding each other at where they were in life. Yuffie was amazed that Aqua was already halfway done with her master’s, and Aqua couldn’t believe that Yuffie already had her license for the tattoo parlor, and had even been working on some of her own art. They were in the middle of collaborating on a new design, sketching it out on a napkin, when the crowd started to cheer. Both of them looked up to see Demyx taking the stage and waving to the audience, many of whom he clearly recognized.

Yuffie put the pen down disdainfully, asking if it could really be _that_ hard for this place to find female performers. But as Demyx kicked off the show with a Pat Benatar cover, she pushed her drink to the center of the table and stood up, stretching her skinny and heavily inked arms above her head. “Well, you gonna hit the floor with me, or are you too cool for that?”

Aqua tossed back what remained of her Doubleflight and shook herself off. “I’m _way_ too cool for this dance floor,” she said, nudging Yuffie ahead. “C’mon.”

Seventh Heaven, falling somewhere between a nightclub and a bar, was far from a place for professionals. Yuffie was right at home with her boisterous, stop-and-start rhythm, a series of punches and elbow jabs and little jumps set to music. But Aqua brought her training to the floor. Even when she was letting loose and having fun, she moved like water with fluid grace. She was in constant motion, a shuffle of her feet carrying momentum all the way to her hips, and then her shoulders, raising her arms above her head. Even Yuffie slowed down to shout, “Whooo, work it, Aqua!” drawing the attention of surrounding patrons. Aqua had to suppress a grin; she really had found a replacement wingman—wingwoman—for Terra. And better yet, this one didn’t smell like testosterone and deodorant with the word “timber” in the name.

They danced for longer than Aqua expected, trying to mimic each other’s moves and laughing when they failed miserably. Eventually, Demyx set his guitar down for a quick break, announcing into the mic, “All right, we’ve gotta tweak some of the sound equipment here, so we’re putting your regular dance mix on. We’ll be back in…ten? Fifteen? Forty-five? I dunno—life’s a mystery.”

They stayed for a few more songs, holding hands and jamming out to “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” and “Tell It To My Heart,” but soon Aqua had to return to the table and rest her feet. The boots did look great, but she shouldn’t have let Ven talk her out of a comfortable pair of sneakers. That’s what she deserved for letting her nerves override her judgment, she supposed.

 

While she rolled her ankles and flexed her toes inside the stiff boots, Yuffie plopped down on the chair beside her, leaning back and swinging her legs. “You know,” she began, “it’s surprisingly hard to pick someone up in this place. I only got two girls to buy me drinks, and neither one of them stuck around.”

“Doesn’t help that you clung to my side the whole time,” Aqua said. “You’re like a little fish attaching itself to a shark.”

“Well, _someone_ sure thinks highly of herself. I didn’t see _you_ making any connections out there, Footloose.”

“Probably for the same reason,” Aqua said, tapping her feet together gently. “They assumed we didn’t want to be bothered.” She looked up from the table, staring across the room, putting the pieces together. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I’m stupid,” Aqua said, a very blunt realization.

“…yes?” Yuffie said, laughing, not sure if this was a joke she was supposed to go along with.

“I’m _so_ stupid. Oh my god.” Aqua slid her hand up her face, massaging her temple. “She thinks I’m here with someone.”

“Uh, hey. You _are_.”

“No,” Aqua said, “she thinks I have a date. Or worse: a girlfriend.”

“You know, that attitude _might_ be why you don’t have one yet.”

“Shhh,” Aqua said sternly. “Shut up. This is your fault. I go up there to flirt with her, and then I walk away with drinks for me and some mystery girl?” Aqua put her elbows on the table, pressing both hands against her face, while Yuffie, both tipsy and mildly alarmed at the sudden mood drop, reached out and rubbed Aqua’s back between her slumped shoulders.

“Hey, it’s all good,” she said, overly soothing, as if she were calming a child. “Tifa’s got an eye on this place, you know? She doesn’t think you’re, like—she knows the drink was for me. It really does suck, by the way,” she said, though she took another sip. Aqua dragged her hands down so they were only covering her nose and mouth, leaving her eyes free to stare wearily at Yuffie. Bubbly, obnoxious, getting-drunker-by-the-minute Yuffie. She was making sense, but Aqua had already started down the path of second-guessing and over-analyzing.

Yuffie saw it. She tried to take one of Aqua’s hands, but she kept them steepled against her face, outright holding her tired head up at this point, so Yuffie awkwardly held onto her wrist instead. “Let’s hit the dance floor again, all right? You can take your big stupid shoes off. I’ll protect your feet. I’ll be like—I’ll say, ‘Hey, everyone. My friend’s here and she’s too stressed to wear shoes. So just back off.’ We’ve all been there, Aqua. We’ve all been too stressed for shoes.”

“You should be better at drinking by now, Yuffie,” was all Aqua mumbled in response. Yuffie tried to snap her fingers, getting it right on the third attempt.

“Got it! I’ll just go get another drink. I’ll tell her to put it on your tab, and she’ll realize you’re just here with me, with little ol’ me, and you’re not blowing her off for some other chick or whatever.”

“I doubt she’ll serve you any more drinks at this point. Nor should she.”

“I’ll get a _ginger ale_ , Aqua,” Yuffie said, over-pronouncing the words and infusing them with more scorn than Aqua would’ve thought possible. She laughed in spite of herself and agreed, sending Yuffie on her way. She watched to make sure she was steady on her feet; the girl was remarkably coordinated and probably less drunk than she seemed, enjoying the excuse to behave with even fewer inhibitions than she normally had. She strode through entire groups of people, making them clear a path with nothing but her voice and her fairly diminutive presence. She was unafraid to be abrasive and demanding toward the same people she might very well try to flirt with later on.

 _You had that boldness once, too_ , Aqua thought, remembering her childhood spent climbing on rocks, testing sticks against her shin to find one tough enough for sparring with Terra, the sun glaring down on them and her glaring right back. _You grew from that girl_ , she thought, a little lightheaded from Yuffie’s Doubleflight, which she realized she’d been helping herself to for the past few minutes. _She’s still in here, somewhere. You’re just out of practice. But at what? At being yourself_?

She banished these thoughts when Yuffie handed her a ginger ale, waking up a bit as she sipped down the crisp, fizzy drink. But when they returned to the dance floor, Aqua accepted that her second wind just wasn’t going to come. Between her sore feet and mild headache—and, if she were being honest, her pessimistic thought patterns—she had reached her limit. And it wasn’t even ten o’ clock.

“Hey,” she said as she leaned down to Yuffie, her voice barely rising above the music. “I’m not feeling great. I think I’m gonna head out.”

“Aww, really?” Yuffie said, borderline pouting. Aqua shrugged apologetically and was about to mention her headache when the next song on the club’s playlist came on.

“Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth?” Belinda Carlisle asked, and with a truly impressive response time, the entire club belted back, “Seventh Heaven is a place on earth!”

Yuffie jumped in surprise, but she recovered fast. “One more song?” she asked, nodding at the speakers. “You’re legally obligated to stay for this one.”

“Honestly, I need to turn in. I really overestimated my energy level tonight.” Yuffie looked disappointed, but she didn’t protest any further, and Aqua pointed over her shoulder to the bar. “Can I get you another drink before I settle the tab? Something you might actually enjoy this time?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Yuffie said, scanning the edge of the floor. “I spotted a few more potential dance partners while you were moping at the table. Gonna see if I can get Miss Eyebrow-Ring to treat me.”

“Just tell her it’s your birthday,” Aqua said. “Works like a charm.”

They hugged, and Yuffie offered an all-encompassing, “Feel better” as they parted ways on the dance floor. Aqua worked through the crowd, making slower progress than Yuffie had. She tried to summon up a smile when she caught Tifa’s eye, but her weariness must have shone through. “You all right?” Tifa asked. Aqua raised her hand to wave away the concern, but after a pause, tapped her head instead.

“Getting a bit of a headache,” she said, struggling to speak over the crowd as she handed her card over. “I’m gonna take off.” She knew she sounded boring, and she didn’t care anymore, too tired to be anything but honest. Tifa nodded sympathetically.

“Well, take it easy—this place isn’t going anywhere,” she said as she swiped the card. “Hope you’ll come back when you’re feeling better.”

Aqua scribbled her signature on the receipt, handing it back with a small smile. “I’m sure I will.”

She slid her card back into her pocket and tried to wave good-bye, but Tifa had already moved on to the next customer, and rather than wait around with her arm in the air like a doofus, Aqua stuck both hands in her pockets and started weaving her way back to the entrance. Demyx noticed her from the stage, and Aqua held one hand to her head, grimacing. He gave her a disappointed look, mouthing, “Feel better.” With a quick thumbs-up, she made the final push through the crowd and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of cool night air.

Her evening could’ve gone better, but it could’ve gone worse. She had nudged herself past her comfort zone, and while it wasn’t a huge step, it was something, and Aqua was learning to be satisfied with that. Maybe _that_ was what growing up was about: being satisfied with incremental progress, because you were able to manage your expectations and see the long-term rewards.

She stood on the sidewalk, mulling it over. It sounded mature, but it wasn’t sitting quite right. In spite of her headache urging her to go home, something else was urging her back the way she’d come. _You’re already here_ , she told herself, looking up at the soft purple sign above the door. _It’s only 9:45. She smiled at you. She was happy to see you tonight, and she wants to see you again_.

A tiny voice rose up inside her, about to say, _Because you’re a paying customer, dumbass_ , but she knew that voice well, and she ground it down beneath her heel before it could speak. And, turning on that same heel, she braced herself and walked back through the door.

The bar was busy, as usual, but Aqua was comfortable waiting by the counter until she was noticed. When Tifa saw her, she looked confused, but not unpleasantly so. “Hey,” she said, furrowing her brow slightly. “You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Aqua said. “I just realized I forgot to ask for a copy of the receipt.”

“Oh, of course,” Tifa said, smiling in relief. “Sorry about that. Things get a little crazy this time of night.”

Aqua smiled back, calm and steady. “Don’t worry about it,” she said as Tifa tore the receipt from the register. “Totally slipped my mind.”

“Well, there you go,” Tifa said, handing it over. “And hey, get some rest.”

“I will,” Aqua promised. “Thanks.”

Tifa nodded and returned to the other customers after what Aqua could’ve sworn was a lingering look, though she didn’t dwell on it. She took her time folding the receipt neatly, blank side out, and once she was sure that Tifa’s attention was elsewhere, she reached across the counter for a pen. As quickly as she could write while still being legible, she jotted down her phone number and stuffed the paper it into the tip jar. She capped the pen and put it back, then made her final journey through the crowd, stepping gratefully out into the fresh air once more.

One foot in front of the other, she walked home alone through the night, the purple light long overtaken by a deep, rich blue. The music still beat in her brain, a dull red throbbing behind her eyes. But she tipped her head back to relieve the pressure and looked up at the sky, seeing stars.

She wore one on her skin, and, she smiled to herself at the memory. She had wasted no time getting it done, wanting that tattoo to be her first major experience in Radiant Garden, but just as importantly, wanting it to be an emblem of Departure. Terra bore an almost identical one on his ankle in yellow and orange. He’d questioned her placement at first, suggesting that, for symbolic reasons, the Wayfinder should be somewhere she could see it. But Aqua had defended her choice. “I know where I’m going,” she insisted. “I want the Wayfinder at my back, so I don’t forget where I’ve been.”

A few years later, and Aqua was no longer sure she knew where she was going, except for tonight, when she was heading straight home for a bath and cup of tea. She raised her hand and brushed her fingertips over the tattoo. She carried it everywhere, but it lightened her load, sitting weightless on her shoulder even when she forgot it was there. It was, like all Wayfinders, both a guiding star and a wishing star, a piece of childhood that had thankfully followed her away from home. But unlike the flimsy charms she and Terra had tried to craft as children, this one would stay with her always, a symbol of where she had been and where she would go, of who she was and who she would become, permanent and unbreakable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew...and that concludes Part 1. Part 2 will begin soon, probably by the end of the week. It'll get more into the Organization characters and introduce a few new ones, too.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, bookmarked, wrote a comment, etc. I really appreciate the feedback, and I hope you all enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) this story!


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